


Love Lies Bleeding

by frumpy_furby



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1910s, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst and Romance, Blood and Gore, Descent into Madness, Discrimination, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Feminist Themes, Humor, Mood Swings, Murder, Murder Mystery, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rituals, Role Reversal, Soft Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28653417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumpy_furby/pseuds/frumpy_furby
Summary: Her presence lingered like smoke from a barely flickering candle, or the light of a dead star on the night firmament. The scent of her perfume was still hanging in the air, haunting me,tauntingme.You might be gone to the world, but not to me, my darling.I will save you.And we will meet again.A Reverse AU.
Relationships: Alastor & Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor & Mimzy (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Charlie Magne
Comments: 98
Kudos: 92





	1. The Wheel of Fortune

_Piercing silence of the cozy wooden walls welcomed the rain-soaked man entering the cabin. His dark, solemn figure seemed out of place in the warmly furnished interior. He glimpsed the couple smiling happily at him from the photo on the wall as he numbly placed his inky hat with a broad crepe band on the clothing rack, along with the black jacket. In its lapel was a pin in the shape of a stag's head, the animal's golden antlers entangled with clusters of reddish flowers._

_He unpinned the peculiar adornment and twiddled it gently in his hands with a soft smile, before finally hiding the piece of jewelry safely in his pocket. The man then ambled up the creaking stairs into the darkness, reaching the second door in the narrow corridor. Unhurriedly, he turned the doorknob._

_Inside, he carefully flicked a match, lightening a kerosene lamp standing on a small cabinet by the entrance. Faint fire touched the whole room, unveiling the vague shapes of the office furniture. The most prominent one was a rustic writing desk, illuminated by moonlight sneaking into the interior through a roof window. On the desk, a neat stack of journals lied, along with a bunch of writing utensils and an opened jewelry box._

_The man trudged towards the table and plonked down in the chair. Apathetically, he placed the deer-shaped pin in the box, next to a gold ring. He stared at them for a while, before curling in on himself, face hidden by hands._

_For minutes, which blurred into one befogged totality of time, his posture stayed frozen, akin to a marble statue. Finally, the clock striking the witching hour woke him up from his lethargy. With sudden resolve, he grabbed the nearest notebook and a pen. After a short moment of hesitation, the words inundated the pages, as if a floodgate had been breached open after a rapid storm._

_With the ambient rain pattering against the panes, he commenced his tale_ — _the tale of love, lies, betrayal, and madness._

══════════════════ 

Saturday, April 8, 1916

Reverberating echo of a gunshot disturbed the tranquillity of the forest, coalescing with birds threshing their wings in the air. More often than not, an unfortunate deer’s wail would follow, or a muffled sound of galloping through the mossy ground in a futile attempt to escape certain demise — definitely not a hiss of pain, followed by a rather awfully loudly muttered string of expletives. I sprung up in sheer shock, the abruptness nearly knocking glasses off my nose. „Are you alright?!” I yelled, hurrying towards the source of the groan. 

„Certainly been better,” a voice grumbled. In a hollow at the base of a bald cypress lied a woman, her dark eyes narrowed and berry lips tightened. She was gripping her injured leg firmly in an attempt to both stop the bleeding and lessen the pain.

”I’m so, so sorry, I don’t know how this could have happened! I must have mistaken you for a doe... which is obviously no excuse." I glanced at her bottle green dress. ” _But_ maybe you should consider wearing a different attire for evening strolls in the woods." As soon as those words slipped out, I realized just how inappropriate they were. I smacked a palm into my forehead in disbelief for my own insolence. Around her lips, however, a slight smirk played; she seemed amused by my utter lack of basic manners. ’My _God_ , Alastor. What would your mother say?' I scolded myself, before clearing my throat and continuing. "Ahem. I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. Are you badly injured, Miss? Can you stand up?”

"I suppose I can." She grabbed a bough, trying to pull herself up. Although the blonde managed to stand somewhat straight, the moment she proceeded to take wobbly steps, all the carefully maintained balance was lost. I bolted forwards just in time to catch her. "...Or perhaps _not_ ," she denoted, visibly displeased with the lack of cooperation on her limbs’ part. 

”Perhaps not,” I agreed. Still holding her close with one arm I moved my free hand up, biting my thumbnail slightly, deep in thought. ”Your injury should be urgently treated, Miss. We should get you to Charity—”

”I do not think it is necessary. The wound does not seem to be _that_ severe,” the lady said nonchalantly, although a short hiss couldn’t be stopped from escaping her lips. ”Moreover, we are deep in the forest, so I suppose we most likely cannot get to the streetcar stop before nightfall.”

”You may be right... In that case, perhaps I could take you home?” 

At those words, her eyes gleamed with mischief. She put a hand on her mouth in a mocking gesture. ”Ooh, suggesting a tryst already? How bold you are, loverboy!” 

”THAT’S NOT—” I protested at the top of my voice, most probably red in the face akin to the sun rising by the break of dawn. Or, less grandiloquently, like a damn school kid. ”I was asking if _you_ were living nearby, so I could take _you_ to _your_ home!”

She laughed heartily at my awkwardness yet again. ”Unfortunately I do not! I am an uptown girl, you see. Quite a distance from here, wouldn’t you say?” A short pause followed. ”Do you perhaps own a car? Surely, with rather deadly intent behind your visit here, you must have thought of a way to bring your poor victims home?”

”No, Miss, I don’t. I am an avid believer in the wonders of public transportation.” I still remember praying to Heavens she wouldn’t notice my reply was nothing more than a convenient way of saying I don’t have a penny to my name and simply wouldn’t be able to afford the upkeep of a car. However, as some wise person once said: _spes mater stultorum_ \- hope is the mother of fools.

„Oh, I see. My deepest condolences,” she simply replied. _Ouch_.

„I cannot help but wonder… Were you intend on conveying the bodies on a streetcar, though? It’s not exactly convenient, is it? I can imagine such a scrape causing quite a bit of an unnecessary mess,” a casual inquiry followed.

In all honesty, feeling confounded at the weirdly asked question was unavoidable, especially since it came from a dignified — even in current bedraggled condition — lady. As I would find out soon enough, it was just one of many instances in which my companion would flummox me so. „I was thinking of carrying the _carcass,_ ” I stressed, wanting to elucidate the _slight_ contrast between it and corpses, „on my back. I live nearby.”

She clapped her hands. „Marvelous! And here I was, thinking this plight was inescapable!”

I looked at her with one eyebrow raised, skeptical about her sudden enthusiasm. Her way of thinking was an enigma to me, and in all sincerity — it still is. Never failing to knock my socks off, that one.

„Do you have anything in particular in mind, Miss…?” I asked carefully.

„Why yes, of course I do!” She exclaimed. „A welcoming host is just the person needed in such a predicament!”

I froze for a second. Was she suggesting what I thought she was suggesting? At that moment my mind wandered back to my modest cabin — a mighty residence for a bachelor, indeed, but certainly not a place to receive an uptown dame in. I was convinced she had already put me down as a pauper, and I sure as hell didn’t intend to strengthen such beliefs. The fact that during those times I gave in to laziness exceptionally often wasn’t helping, either. Frankly, the sentence overlapping all my thoughts back then was ’Oh God, _I should have cleaned yesterday_ ’, and for a good reason: while poverty might be ineluctable, the same cannot be said about slovenliness!

And so, I did everything in my power to try to unconvince her.

It should come as no surprise those efforts were all in vain, doomed to failure from the very beginning.

”Well, yes, certainly, Miss!” I could see a smug grin beginning to form on her face. ”Although I’m afraid I don’t know any such person in the nearest vicinity!”

”Oh, is that so?” Her eyes opened wide and she covered her mouth in a gesture of sheer surprise. ”Then I suppose I have no choice but to spend the night here. I hope the wolves will go easy on me, oh, the damned, cruel fate!" She threw her arms in the air in a theatrical gesture, nearly hitting me in the face in the process.

”We are in the bayou, I think alligators are way more of an issue,” I matter-of-factly stated.

”I think that is beside the point.” After letting out an exasperated sigh, she continued. ”If only we lived in the past era, I could count on a young, handsome hero to come and rescue the damsel in distress... but those times are long gone, and such men do not exist anymore.”

Even though I saw right through her strategy, I do admit my masculinity did feel a bit more fragile than usual at that moment. I was, and still am, a gentleman, above all else. I was very well aware leaving her in such a state would be an unforgivable disgrace — my mother taught me better, God bless her soul. Nonetheless, inviting the vastly intriguing stranger home didn’t seem like the most clever idea. Not because of some irrational fear — ultimately, the petite lady wobbling before me was no thug — but rather for the simple reason of her being a dame, and an _uptown_ dame at that. Her reputation was on the line. Spending the night together, in a secluded cabin deep in the woods, with a man whose name she didn’t even know? That was sure to create a lot of gossip. And no one was safe from scandalmongers. The forest might not have had a lot of walls, but it had ears nonetheless.

It really was a tragic dilemma. Mayhaps not in the Greek sense of the word — Antigone would surely be pretty nettled by such use of the phrase — but undeniably by the _savoir-vivre_ standards.

Well, no, maybe not. I don’t think there is any rule regarding the course of action in case an unlucky gentleman shots a dame, mistaking her for the wild game. Really, such situations don’t happen in your everyday life.

So, probably it’s just an Alastor thing, then.

”With all due respect, Miss, but I think they do! They just tend to hide from the society in places not exactly fit for a dignified lady such as yourself.”

”Oh? And what places are fit for a _dignified lady_?” She pressed her lips with a slight frown and crossed her arms. From the way one of her dark eyes twitched, I could clearly see the pain she was trying so hard to mask with her cockiness. ”Because I, for one, think it is everyplace such a dame wishes to be in.”

”However,” one last time I hopelessly tried to raise my argument, ”the society might not be agreeing with that just yet, so maybe the idea of visiting a stranger at late evening hours should be reconsidered—”

”My name is Charlotte Magne,” she introduced herself, piercing me with those ocean-deep eyes. ”Here. I am stranger to you no more now. No need to be so wary, I am not going to do you away with in your sleep, loverboy.”

A titter followed, and it was akin to the sound of a silver bell. For a long time, I thought she had me at that laughter; now I’m not so sure, not anymore. There is one thing I know for a fact, though: no man on the face of planet Earth wouldn’t be willing to go to great lengths to keep the source of such liltingly sweet sounds in his life. Her laughter seemed to cloud everything — every word spoken, every rational thought, every single sense. She was a siren, and woe unto any sailor who dared to wander too close.

But just like a dumb deckhand, I wasn’t aware of that at first. I recognized my own slight entrancement, yes, but the extent of it was yet to be discovered. In the end, as I would learn, the line between enthralment and enamour is thin and oh so easily overlooked. And so, I answered.

”Alastor Laurent, Miss Magne. The pleasure is all mine.”

══════════════════

"I'm terribly sorry for the mess, Miss," I said, carefully putting my unexpected guest on the couch. After continuing our discussion for a little while longer, I finally gave way — admittedly, she was right to point out all the concerns I had were not mine to linger on; in the end, I was a man, and any rumour that might spread would not affect me in the slightest. Trying to force my viewpoint of the situation on her wasn’t gentlemanly in any way — especially considering the fault for the current state of affairs was entirely mine. Not to mention how utterly ridiculous and irrational my behavior back then was; there was no rational explanation as to why would I place so much emphasis on _savoir-vivre_ in such a setting. To tell the truth, I am still embarrassed; was it shock making me act like a white knight with no grip on reality? Regardless, it’s a wonder Miss Magne hadn’t written me off right there and then.

Maybe finding herself in the middle of the bayou, unable to walk, at the mercy of one hopeless idiot, had something to do with it.

Right.

…Anyway! 

„That is the cleanest case of a messy interior I have ever seen in my life, and believe me when I say I have seen many,” Charlotte sighed, trying to make herself more comfortable. It wasn’t exactly easy with the injury she had suffered. I looked at her, rubbing my face. I started to wander restlessly around the small living area, my gaze flitting around the room. Although it might seem surprising, taking my hunting hobbies into account, I wasn’t exactly big on blood. My first aid skills also left a great deal to be desired. Nonetheless, the lady got injured because of me, and so I had to do everything in my power, albeit limited, to help her. 

„I’m glad to hear my bachelor cleanness is up to your standards, Miss- _shit_ ”

„It’s Magne, but whatever floats your boat, loverboy. Are you quite alright?” Charlotte craned out on the couch, trying to get a better look into the kitchen. The wall cupboard’s contents were now lying all over the floor, with certain groceries over me as well. I should have known better than to put everything in such a small space forcefully. Luckily, the flour bag didn’t rip in the process — as comedic as it would be, we were in a rather unpleasant situation already. However that kind of occurrence would be a smash to read — I agree — we were not some kind of novel characters.

„Yes, I am, I was just looking for something to treat your wound with,” I said while fixing my hair, trying to get the pasta out of it with as much dignity as I could muster; considering my companion’s wheezing, with no apparent success. „I just- don’t remember where I put the first aid kit—”

„Have you checked the kitchen cupboard?” 

„I did just now! And it’s not there!” I exclaimed, struggling to stuff the pesky items back to where they belonged. Her giggle was still heard in the background, in equal parts lovely and nettling.

„Are you sure, loverboy? Perhaps you should try again. Without hurting yourself in the process this time.”

I rolled my eyes and continued to pick up all the damned kitchen utensils. That woman… it seemed as if we hadn’t met just a mere hour ago. To be frank, I shouldn’t have been so surprised; after all, Miss Charlotte Magne was a walking contradiction. While she might have had the looks of a fragile lady, with her soft features, golden hair, and fair skin, her behavior was more akin to a smug femme fatale. Her knowing eyes and smile, the way she talked, the way she constantly teased me, it all had an impression of circumstances vastly different from the ones we were in. Honestly, the thought of us being complete strangers, together only because of an unlucky hunting accident, wouldn’t even cross a bystander’s mind. No, one would most likely compare us to a married couple, albeit with slightly reversed roles, seeing that the husband would be the one pottering around the kitchen.

The realization made me flustered, yet again. Thankfully this time my face was obscured by the kitchen furniture, and so Miss Charlotte wouldn’t poke fun at me once more. I continued going through the things scattered across the floor in an attempt to categorize them somehow, to make my herculean task of tidying everything up a bit more manageable. Soon enough, I felt the rough, cardboard texture of a certain box under my fingertips. I picked it up and rolled my eyes as soon as I caught a glimpse of the picture depicting two men carrying their wounded comrade.

Why did she always have to be right?

„I got it! I found the kit!” I exclaimed, waving the box in the air.

„Was it in the cupboard?” She smirked, accepting the accident case. I took the liberty of not answering her question, deeming it rhetoric, and simply shrugged.

Charlotte probably didn’t notice it, though, as she immediately began to inspect the contents of my modest kit. Her brows furrowed. „I presume you do not have the Carrel-Dakin solution anywhere, do you?”

„Carrel-who-what?” I gibbered, dumbfounded.

Miss Magne tilted her head to the ceiling before letting out a heavy sigh. „Hypochlorite of soda? For wound clearing?” She said in a sharper, somewhat irritated tone.

I tilted my head to the side slightly. „No…?” I mumbled with hesitation, lines forming between my eyebrows. I hadn’t got the faintest idea of what she was talking about. My medical knowledge was nearly nonexistent — so all her words might as well be Greek to me.

„Iodine then, maybe?” She started to rub her brow as if to ward off a sudden headache.

„…No…” I faltered. „But I have some spirit?” I unsurely added in a raised voice. At least to my knowledge, alcohol was a disinfectant too, so in theory it should work? I sure as hell hoped so — I had made a halfwit out of myself enough times that day, had I not?

She sighed with exasperation. „That will have to do then. A knife, preferably with a crescent-shaped blade, will be needed, too. I suppose you should own such an item?” Her gaze turned to a buck’s head with impressive, colossal antlers on the wall just above the main doors.

„This thing I actually do have, yes!” I bursted out, rapturous to finally be able to understand her and fulfill her request. I strode confidently towards the closet under the staircase where I stored all my hunting equipment, among other things. As I took the cutter out of its sheath, the realization hit me. „But… what do you need a knife for?” I gulped.

„Although usually gunshot wounds to the lower extremity do not require extraction, this one is a tad bit too close to my knee for my taste. The bullet will have to be removed, or I will end up with an infection,” she glanced at my rapidly paling face, „or worse. I do not think there is any need for boring you with the details, loverboy.” Charlotte hummed, stroking her chin. After a few seconds, she threw her pointing finger in the air. „Oh! And would you be a dear and get me some whiskey?”

"Whiskey?" I look at her dumbfounded once again. That was a rather specific request, and honestly kind of weird, especially coming from a well-off dame. After all, such ladies aren’t exactly known to be enthusiasts of alcoholic beverages, especially dark ones, like rum or the aforesaid whiskey. No, surely I must have misheard, there is no possibility Miss Magne would want to drink _that_? There must be a different reason behind this solicit. Probably some more medical gobbledegook? And so I asked, naïve as I was, ”isn’t spirit better for wound cleaning?”

The laugh that followed was most probably heard as far as Baton Rouge. ”Why, yes, it is!” Charlotte replied, wiping tears from her eyes. ”Would not pick it as my first choice, sure, but certainly, dark beverages cannot even be _compared_ to good old spirit!”

After calming down from her sudden outburst, she continued, a serious look on her face and hands neatly put in her lap in an effortlessly elegant way. Gracefully taking up the offered drink, Miss Magne tilted the glass from one side to another, as if inspecting its contents. ”The whiskey is not meant for that purpose, though. I simply enjoy drinking it. And, with all due respect, loverboy, but you do not exactly strike me as a quick-handed surgeon. So, I would much prefer being _not_ exactly sober whilst you are cutting into my tissue.”

At that moment, my eyes probably looked as if they were a part of my late mother’s porcelain saucer set. She wanted _me_ to perform _surgery_? 

Well, alright, maybe surgery is too strong of a word, but a medical procedure nonetheless. For Christ’s sake, just a few minutes prior she was a witness to my inability to even find a first aid kit, not to mention my complete lack of knowledge on disinfection methods! The most possible result was me making the outcome of our plight even direr. I hurt her enough and didn’t want to even more, due to my incompetence.

On the other hand though — what choice did we, or rather _she,_ have? Charity was far away, and the likelihood of sequelae steaming from any further passivity was apparently pretty high. Surely Miss Magne would rather someone with actual skill took care of her injury, but unfortunately, her only choice happened to be a humble university student, who not even once in his life had anything to do with medicine. Indeed, I’m not even exactly sure I had ever been to the hospital back then.

And so I mustered all the courage I could and sat myself down at her feet. ”Can I?” I muttered, pointing at her dress. Without hesitation nor shyness, Charlotte grabbed the hem of the skirt and rolled it up boldly, nearly fully exposing her legs. With shaking hands, I proceeded to pull down the stocking on the injured calf. ”No,” I heard a hiss. ”Don’t. Just cut it,” she said, handing me a pair of scissors.

’You got this, Alastor,’ I pepped myself as I cut the delicate fabric of her hose with trembling hands.

The injury underneath was pretty nasty, to be honest. Considering the shotgun bullet size, it was surprisingly small, but substantial nonetheless. The circular shape looked punched out and ragged around the edges, surrounded by abraded epidermis. From the inside, the blood was still oozing thickly and spurting out - most of it bright and crimson in color, but a lot already settled into maroon clots. As suspected, the bullet was still buried deep inside her leg — the exit wound was nowhere to be seen. Trying my best to ignore the intensive, metallic smell, I deeply inhaled and exhaled once again, in an attempt to calm myself down. I looked up at Charlotte and nodded, signaling I was ready to start.

I carefully pressed the knife’s sharp edge by the wound’s extremity, pushing it down to create a small cut, which would make the entrance bigger and the later extraction easier. My movements were extremely slow, I must admit — my hands were still trembling terribly and my head pounded, because of both the stress and the awful smell. Much to my astonishment, my patient wasn’t quivering; she was completely still, only short hissing sounds and occasional curses to be heard.

„Sorry,” I muffled. As a response to that, a few profanities could be made out. Quite understandable, really. I wasn’t one to judge — honestly, if I was being cut without any sort of anesthesia, I would most likely be wriggling, screaming four-letter words like a sailor and crying. Simultaneously, it can safely be presumed.

„ **Stop**.” I heard, just as I proceeded to make the second cut. Obediently I froze and looked up at my patient in a mixture of confusion and dread. The fright of making a mistake was at the back of my head the entire time — having no medical background, I could sever one of her nerves or do some other irreversible damage even with the best intentions at heart. „I gravely overestimated you. Just… give me that.” Visibly tense, with lips pressed into a white slash, and with glossy eyes, Charlotte pointed at the knife in my hand. With a bowed head, I compliantly gave it to her, handle first. Before I even moved back, she began to perform the surgery on herself.

The time slowed down as I watched my ex-patient carving up her own calf with sure, steady movements. She wasn’t hissing anymore, but knitted brows and drops of sweat on her forehead were giving her pain away. With the other hand, she stretched the skin near the wound to make the cutting easier. After a few dreading moments, I could see the bullet case head protruding slightly from the lesion. In a fast motion, Charlotte pried the object, which fell out of the bloody, jagged hole, hitting the wooden floor with a loud clang. With a wide, satisfied smile, she poured the alcohol on the laceration before wrapping it tightly using a bandage from the kit. She let out a deep, gratifying sigh and leaned back at the couch, finally at ease.

I felt relieved, too. At last being able to let my heavy lids fall, I stayed like so for a few moments. The stillness was soothing — just what we both needed after these taxing ordeals. After a while though, the quietude’s tranquility started to feel more like an awkward silence, neither relaxing nor calming in any way. The need to break it was strong, although I couldn’t exactly come up with any idea to do that. This was the first time since I could remember having someone at my humble house, especially at such late hours. And, if that wasn’t obvious enough already, I wasn’t exactly a master of charm and small-talk. No pain, no gain, though, or so they say. Therefore, after thinking of an opening line, I went:

„That was… something, right?” 

To no one’s surprise, it was positively terrible. I swear I could hear the dead buck’s head on my wall wail in disappointment. I turned, face tingling and ears beet red, to see my guest’s reaction. What followed wasn’t a smart retort, nor some more teasing. No, it was just a soft grumble, the sort a child would make when someone interrupted their sleep.

Charlotte was still sitting up, although slowly but surely sinking into the couch more with every passing moment. No signs of pain were visible in her soft features — she looked serene; angelic, even. She seemed like a completely different person: just a regular girl, rather than the fierce woman she was just mere minutes ago. I found myself beguiled by her duality once more. Which side of her was closer to reality? Was Charlotte Magne a delicate lilac, or was she more akin to a rose, whose thorns shouldn’t be disregarded? 

Gently, trying not to wake her up, I took the sleeping beauty in my arms and lifted her off the couch, slowly making my way to the guest room. Carefully I laid her on the bed and tucked her in. She murmured something lightly, but I wasn’t able to make anything out of her words. Was that a name she was whispering?

I quietly passed to the door, looking back at her sleeping figure for just a brief moment. In my mind, I kept wondering: was today the start of something exceptional, never to be forgotten?

And just how right I was.

══════════════════

„Well then, this is my place!”

I sighed with relief hearing that exclamation. Charlotte was a petite lady, but I wasn’t exactly buff myself, so carrying her all the way here was quite a feat, even though we did take a street car. Nonetheless, before we could cave in to such comfort provided by our lovely city, I had to hump my unfortunate guest for over half a mile through rugged forest terrain. Though St Charles Street’s pave walk was certainly easier on my legs, Miss Magne’s neighbors stares sure as hell weren’t merciful to my ego.

But in the end, I had brought this upon myself, so I didn’t exactly have any right to complain, did I?

Placing my hands on the lower part of my back and pulling my shoulders together in an attempt to stretch my poor, tired torso, I looked around, taking in the beauty of the Uptown. Cobblestones were surrounded by canopies of leafy green trees of various kinds, as well as great specimens of flowering bushes, blossoming abundantly in arrays of white and lilac. The rectangular houses with flat roofs and intricately carved supporting brackets under the eaves were hidden from curious passersby eyes by impressive foliage, too — each and every one of them having a small, but well planned garden. Miss Magne’s mansion was no exception, although its style differed from the other, bright Prytania Street residences. It had an elaborate, irregularly shaped, pitched roof with a forward-facing gable. The house was quite extravagantly, but tastily ornamented, with its decorative trims, wall carvings, bannisters and spindles. Probably in order not to contrast too much with the other mansions on the street, its colors were pretty uncommon for a late Victorian building — it was ivory beige with only the accents in a pomegranate color. The beautiful, elongated flowers, hanging to the ground, were similar in shade, too. As I bid Miss Magne farewell, I couldn’t help but take one reddish-rose inflorescence in my hand, admiring its strikingly melancholic allure. Unawares, I plucked the blossom, letting it become a keepsake of the previous day’s uncanny events.

Just a few moments later I found myself back in the streetcar, lost in thoughts as the clattering over the cobbles rocked me gently. Although substantially exhausted after the occurrences of the night before, I still had quite a few matters to attend to which required a lot of my energy. Even though it’s been years, and I was being rejected every single time, I promised I wouldn’t stop bothering the Detective until he either solved the cold case he was involved in or granted me access to it. I might not be a private eye by profession, but I had to do everything in my power to see this particular investigation concluded.

Because even after eight years, the memory of my mother’s horrible demise was keeping me up at night, and God help me — I wouldn’t stop trying until the culprit was caught.

No matter the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Wheel of Fortune card symbolizes the changing fortunes, as well as the further course of events. In the upright position, it usually indicates prosperity and happiness — in love or at work, but also luck in gaining material assets or the love of the person one is infatuated with. However, in reverse, it is associated with unlucky turns of events, in various areas of life._  
>    
>  And there you have it, the end of chapter one!  
>    
>  Next week, we will follow our brave protagonist, as he does his best to start working on what will be the other focus of the story: his investigation.  
>    
>  It should also be mentioned that yes, all the chapters will be named after cards from the Major Arcana, although in the order I deem fit. _wiggles brows_  
>    
>  I would also like to take a moment to thank Jou (@meowjou), my long-standing ~~and very enduring~~ beta reader, without whom I wouldn’t be able to write this fic, as well as Muse (@MuseValentine) and Dessie (@descendree) who supported me and patiently listened to all my vents and struggles throughout the half a year I have already worked on this, planning, researching, and writing! ~~so, for a long while, you don’t have to worry about the upload consistency, my dear reader; I have quite a bit of backup chapters ready!~~  
>    
>  I hope you enjoyed the first installment! I am open to all comments and critiques, if you wished to leave me some! I haven’t really written a fic before, so I would be very grateful for all insights.  
> 


	2. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor is running errands, annoying the hell out of a certain old hand, while Charlotte has a visitor and finds a brand new way to unwind.

Tuesday, April 18, 1916

The tall, red brick building on the corner of Tulane Avenue and Saratoga Street loomed over me as I stood there, brooding. Although certainly impressive, I have seen it enough times not to pay much attention to its handsomeness anymore, as I suppose was the case with most New Orleanians. The Courthouse wasn’t a place anyone would like to have much in common with. Going there meant you were either a criminal waiting for trial or a victim of one, wanting to report the detriment you were unlucky enough to suffer to the Police. Of course, there were also those only vicariously affected by the unlawful acts of the less upstanding denizens of Crescent City. They usually preferred to believe others would take care of their affairs for them. Letting things hang was a common choice as well; which I, for one, couldn’t understand.

The striking sound of the bell announcing the hour from the clock tower roused me from stupor. I breathed in and out a few times to calm my nerves before finally pressing the handle and pushing the massive doors open. Having done this many times prior didn’t make the whole ordeal any easier, the sheer weight of the doors being the least of my worries. 

Back then, I considered myself a person rarely imposing my presence on others, at least in matters of substance. Always preferring to fend for myself, I delayed asking for help or favor from anyone, friends and family included, for as long as I could. Being a pain in the neck definitely wasn’t my style (even if the future would unveil I wasn’t as resourceful as I liked to think), and needless to say, coming to the Station at least biweekly for years was very much distressing to all parties involved. 

I wasn’t doing it for  _ myself _ , though. No — justice was what I was striving to find in these treacherous, wretched halls. Rushing through the vast corridor, all the previous rejections echoed in my head. There wasn’t much hope that day would be any different, and so I was eager to just get this over with, to calm my conscience for at least a bit.

My destination was a rather small, white office with furniture of all styles and materials imaginable within our oh so  _ poor _ officers’ pay grade. By the central desk sat a grey-flecked old-timer with incredibly bushy eyebrows. Hearing someone enter the office, he looked up from his documents. 

„No,” the Detective grumbled as soon as he set his eyes on me. 

„Detective Husk, please listen to me—” 

„No.” He firmly stated, looking me dead in the eye. ”I told you enough times already, kid. It’s been eight years, the case is cold, end of story.” His gaze returned to the stack of papers, which he continued to flip through as a clear indicator of the conversation being over on his part. However, I wasn’t going to accommodate him, not so fast; and so, I tried again. 

„Alright, then let me—” 

„Let me guess, ‚see the files’?” Detective scoffed, interrupting me, irritation apparent in his low, raspy voice. ”Kid, do we look like a fucking public library to you?” 

„You do use Emeralites.” I retorted, eyeballing the green lamp on Husk’s desk. This type of illumination emerged on the market less than a decade ago, and since then managed to flood not only next to every single library in the country, but also banks and — apparently — police stations. 

„I see your wit has sharpened in the last fortnight. I am still not giving you the files. I don’t make the rules.” He looked over his desk as if searching for something. ”God damn, where are my glasses?” He mumbled under his breath, probably hoping I wouldn’t hear. I pretended not to catch it; after all, I was wearing cheaters despite being decades younger than the Detective. His slight gerascophobia was an open secret and vexing him any further wouldn’t help me one bit. 

That doesn’t mean I stopped nagging him, of course. 

„You are the main investigator here.” 

„Son, you are seriously stupid if you think that makes me the boss. Lieutenant would have my head, you get that? Piss off, kid, I have better things to do than looking at your annoying mug.” Detective waved his hand dismissively, not gracing my persona with a single glance. 

„No.” I simply stated with unwavering confidence.

„This wasn’t a polite fucking request. If you won’t go out willingly I will throw your ass out of here myself—” 

I bent over his desk, both arms straightened. „No, Detective Husk, you listen to me. You can kick me out as many times as you want, but I will never stop coming back here. Back then, you knew you could solve the case, but you were either unbothered or incompetent. Or both. For you, it might be just one homicide out of hundreds, but it is not for me. It’s my  _ mother _ we are talking about. Could you let this go, Joe? Could  _ you _ ?”

Husk's brows knotted. He must have been surprised by my outburst and honestly, the bold display shocked me as well. For years he had known me, I rarely raised my voice at him, or have been that insistent on anything. After a minute or so, he sighed with exasperation, firmness faltering, and slowly giving way.

„Kid, just how long do you plan to keep this up?”

„As long as I have to.”

A swift, simple, and right to the point reply. It caused the detective to massage his temple to somehow relieve the stress and, perhaps, to facilitate the decision he was about to make. "Christ, damn that soft heart of mine.” He grouched. ”Alright, I'll show you the documents and evidence."

A bright smile appeared on my face. Quite a cheerful reaction, maybe a bit too chippy taking into consideration the favor being asked, but in my humble opinion, quite understandable nonetheless. After bothering him for so long, by some miracle he finally yielded. It was the first step. A  _ success! _

”Son, are you sure though?” He continued. „The contents are quite distressing."

If it was anybody else, I would say their eyes stared at me with worry. However, it was Joe Husk we were talking about — the nastiest, the least pleasant person imaginable. The possibility of him being actually concerned for another human being was akin to that of  Storyville closing1 . 

"I know. I was there, remember?" I replied hesitantly, taking a slight step backwards. 

"I do. But I am not exactly sure  _ you _ do, Alastor.” 

As reluctant as I was to agree, Husk did have a point. 

My childhood memories are all a blur — the partial amnesia most likely a reaction to the traumatic event to which I witnessed. Even though I was present at the scene of my mother’s slaughter, my mind blocked this memory completely. I vaguely remember the direct aftermath — the smell of the smoke, the raging fire’s heat, the rush. The Detective trying to put out the fire. The failed, attempted questioning at the police station. The constant fear of the same thing happening to me, the uncertainty of not knowing the culprit’s name, or even the progress of the investigation; I was merely twelve when my mother died. As soon as I came of age, I started coming to the station, at first demanding the case’s results, and when I learned there were next to none — access to the files. Up to that moment, in vain. 

Detective’s voice roused me from my meditations. He sighed, asking to go to a separate room, in which walls covered in various boxes and folders welcomed me. The only source of lighting was a small lamp, standing on the simple table in the middle. It was doing its best to illuminate the dreary chamber — however, its efforts were not enough, and my eyes took a while to get used to the darkness. I sat down by the table; the bang of a box and a stash of papers being thrown making me jump in my seat. 

„Jesus, Husk, give me a heads-up next time.” 

„There won’t be the next time, so you better start taking notes now.” He grimaced, folding arms around his chest. I couldn’t help but wonder — how was he not tired of his own grumpiness? I could imagine such a negative approach to life draining all energy one might have left. Although it could damage the big bad inspector vibe he was clearly trying to achieve, I think some happiness wouldn’t hurt. Not that I  _ cared _ , of course. Not at  _ all. _

„Couldn’t I just… borrow these?” I pointed at the pile. The disorganization and chaos they were in was not only intimidating, but also quite distressing. How exactly could the police do  _ anything _ , if the materials relevant to the case were in such a disarray? Looking at the sight before my eyes, I estimated it would take me hours of simply paging through everything and putting things in order, not even reading through fully, to get the necessary information. No wonder police were so incompetent — I can’t imagine anyone  _ not _ personally invested in a case spending so much time on it. 

„Don’t overlook your welcome and test my patience any further, son. The files are not leaving this room, so you can either transcribe them or use the mimeograph we have in the office.” 

Well, that was to be expected, I guess. Even though organization was not the department’s strongest suit, at least they were kind of serious about the risks of documents getting lost. Quite inconvenient for me, yes, but at least there was hope of the files being complete, despite the state they were in. „What about the photos? I can’t exactly copy them on the machine, and they are of the essence.” 

„That’s not my fucking problem. You’re an artist, do some arting.” 

„I’m not an artist—” 

„I don’t give a damn if you haven’t noticed. Do you have any other questions you want to ask me?” 

„Why were you there?” 

I had a lot of questions, actually. What were his personal opinions on the case? Did he think it had been possible to solve it, and was it now? Did he think I was capable of continuing the investigation? They had all been roaming through my mind for a really long while, but none longer than that one. Why was Husk in the forest the night of the murder? The dead hours just before dawn aren’t exactly the popular time to be strolling through the woods unless one is a mushroom picker. I wouldn’t suspect the Detective of such a hobby, though, and moreover, as far as I know, June isn’t exactly the perfect time to gather all the various boletes. In all seriousness, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling of a darkly wild surmise. I had known Husk for years and despite his grouchiness, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Moreover, he didn’t  _ seem _ to have a motive, and if he hadn’t been there in the Bayou, I would have certainly perished in the fire. In spite of all that, the question still haunted me — and I needed to hear the answer from him. 

„Does it matter? You would think I am shitting you anyway.” His gaze averted mine. 

„Try me.” My smile was forced, and I could feel my muscles tense. 

The detective sighed, still not looking me in the eye, pretending to see something vastly absorbing on the dusty shelf with ‚1891’ written on it. „I am an avid ornithologist,” he finally coughed up. 

He was what now? 

„…you  _ are _ shitting me.” I blinked. 

„Fuck, kid, why would I lie? I like owls. Maybe I was a cat in another lifetime, but now I’d rather admire the birds than eat them. Have you ever seen a brown morph of an Eastern screech owl? I was walking around the forest trying to find those, their gray-brown coloration is exquisitely—” 

Well, that answer I certainly wasn’t expecting. Maybe Detective Joe Husk being a mushroom picker wasn’t  _ that _ unprobable after all. From where I stood, he was neither a nature lover nor an individual to use such elegant vocabulary. I guess one cannot judge a book by its cover, indeed. „Alright, alright.” I snorted. „I believe you.” 

He shrugged and pointed at the door behind his back. „If you need anything else, I am at the office, but I would suggest not interrupting me further.” 

Before I could respond, he was already gone. And so, I sat down to read and copy the files’ contents, starting with the crime report.

**REPORT OF HOMICIDE**

**Department of Police**

Fifth **Precinct**

 **New Orleans** , June 14th **1908**

 **Name of the person killed** ,Mary Laurent (colored).

 **Residence** ,The Bayou, half an hour from the corner of Claiborne Ave and Elysian Fields Ave.

 **Business** ,Hawker.

 **Name of accused** ,Unknown.

 **Residence** ,Unknown.

 **Business** ,Unknown.

 **Location of homicide** ,The Bayou, half an hour from the corner of Claiborne Ave and Elysian Fields Ave.

 **Day, date, hour committed** ,About 4-5 A.M., Sunday, June 14th/08.

 **By whom reported** ,Det. Joe Husk.

 **To whom reported** ,Inspector of Police Travis McEgret.

 **Time reported** ,8 o’clock A.M.

 **If arrested, by whom** ,None.

 **Where arrested** ,- - - - - - -

 **If escaped, in what manner** ,- - - - - - -

 **Witnesses** ,Alastor Laurent (colored), age 12 years.

**Detailed Report.**

I would report that presumably about 4-5 A.M. Sunday June 14th/08, in a cabin belonging to the family of two named Laurent, a colored woman named Mary Laurent was killed in what appears to be a ritual sacrifice, the sole witness being her son, Alastor Laurent, aged 12 years — unable to testify by the reasons of trauma-induced muteness. 

The crime was discovered at about 6 A.M. Sunday June 14th/08. I saw a fire and after successfully putting it down, I went on to examine its source. 

Investigation made learned it was started intentionally to cover up the homicide committed. The interior was in disarray, clear signs of struggle visible. The body was lying in what appeared to be a summoning circle, very complex and with various symbols inscribed inside, made of a mixture of blood and dirt. Despite the fire, signs of torture and mutilation were still apparent. The victim's throat was slashed, and there were several stab wounds in the middle compartment of the chest. The deceased’s thorax was cut open, both the heart and liver missing, along with the marrow. The coroner’s inspection revealed those injuries were inflicted while the victim was still alive. The right hand was taken as well, post mortem. Her hair was cut nearly completely, probably for ritualistic purposes also, judging by the voodoo-esque doll made of straight, black human hair, lying close to the body. It survived the fire intact. See photographic evidence for reference. 

Potential suspects have not been revealed by the investigation conducted. The culprit is most possibly a young man in his 30s with vast medical knowledge, judging by the skill in which the entrails were extracted, and the strength required for that. He is also connected to a cult dealing with black magic, the nature of which could not be determined. This leads us to believe he might be colored, likely Native or of Creole/Cajun descent. The brutality of the homicide suggests the culprit and victim knew each other, but no person suiting the profile, nor another suspicious individual has been detected in the social circle of the deceased. 

Respectfully, _Joe Husk_

Detective, 5th precinct 

My flesh tightened and crawled as if hoards of ants ran on my skin. The lump in my throat grew, making it hard to breathe. For a moment, which felt like eternity, I was suffocating. Why would anyone do this to another human being? Especially to one so pure of heart and helpless as my poor mother? I tried to break through my mental barrier, doing everything in my power to remember people we used to know, but to no avail. I paged through the files, looking at names of the persons questioned, making notes of anything of importance. There weren’t many of them. It made me feel angry — even though rationally I knew we weren’t exactly sociable, so the possible suspect circle was very narrow, I couldn’t help but presume it was all due to the pathetically conducted investigation. 

It didn’t make much sense why the police didn’t consider some kind of Jack the Ripper style killer striking, the one that murders at random. The evidence strongly suggested it — a black magic rite, if linked to a sect or a cult of sorts, would mean such crimes happening more often. It was the first inconsistency that caught my eye. And so I proceed to look for any links to future or previous cases, but except one woman from 1911, seemingly there were none in the New Orleans area. 

As I turned the page, small, stiff pieces of paper fell out of the binder. I bent over to collect them, and as soon as my eye caught the glimpse of the images depicted on them, I froze. My spine felt cold like in the harshest winter and I wanted to vomit, but I couldn’t. Arduously I grabbed the edge of the table and with my head still down I made every effort to regain the ability to breathe, even though every inhale could very well be a set of needles repeatedly stabbed into my lungs. No warning could prepare me for the gruesome contents of the photos, for the body mutilated before recognition, for the grotesque ceremonial items and symbols surrounding the corpse. It felt surreal; suddenly I was a boy hiding in the closet once more, too scared to run, but too terrified to stay and look.

But I was a boy no more. And so, with trembling hands, fighting the natural responses of my body, I proceeded to inspect the photos, in the same way I did my blueprints, looking for any mistakes, anything out of place. 

Soon enough, one detail caught my attention. The remaining hand of the victim was adorned with a ring, of which I couldn’t make out the details because of the poor photo quality. It seemed to be a trifle; many women wore a wedding band on the fourth finger of their left hand after all. However, the one in the photo seemed vastly different from the one I remembered. And even if I didn’t — the one victim wore was embellished with a precious stone someone of my family’s station could never afford. 

Rapidly I turned to the evidence box Husk so unceremoniously threw on the table before he left. I started looking through its contents. They made me feel what can only be described as a mixture of nostalgia and anger. Many of the items were my family heirlooms, things I loved greatly; most of them were in a really poor state, both because of the fire that consumed our humble house and the lack of upkeeping throughout the last eight years. After a while of rummaging the messy box, I found what I had been looking for. 

The gold ring I held in my hand was, as suspected, one I had never seen before. Even my amateur eyes could determine it was indeed very expensive. The band was decorated with a red gem, presumably a ruby, cut into a peculiar shape: an apple. There were also some inscriptions carved into it, but I couldn’t make out their meaning. The alphabet used was completely foreign to me. The symbols were different on the outside and inside part of the ring. I meticulously copied them into my journal, as well as I could.

symbols on the outside of the ring

symbols on the inside of the ring

I was at a loss as to why the police hadn’t investigated the piece of jewelry in any way before. There was no mention of it in the files as if they deemed it completely unrelated to the case. Such negligence was something I didn’t suspect the authorities of, even at my most doubtful moments. I felt wrath raging inside my very core, the one that makes your blood boil and ears pound. The pulled back chair fell on the ground with a loud thud, closely followed by the sound of the doors slamming, nearly ripping them off the hinges. Soon enough I was standing before Husk yet again. He looked at me with confusion and anticipation, clearly aware of my aggravation, which I didn’t even try to hide. I probably would not be able to anyway; you know what they say, there’s nothing more intimidating than a calm and collected person turned furious. 

„What’s going on, kid? Need help with somethin’?” 

„ _ Now _ you are suddenly so very helpful.” I slammed a hand on his desk, throwing the ring on it with the rapid gesture. „What is this?” I asked, still piercing him with an unwavering gaze. 

„Yeah, I remember everything about an eight years old case.” He snarled, however this time the irritation wasn’t apparent in his eyes trying to avoid mine as much as possible. The detective fixed his collar in what was intended as a nonchalant gesture but came out as a clear sign of unskillfully hidden nervousness. „Your mother’s, I guess. You must know better than anyone the woman was a weirdo and believed all black mojo.” 

At that moment, I wouldn’t have anyone, including Husk, talk about my mother this way, but reasonably I knew he was right. My late mother was… different, and I was very well aware of it. In very few of my memories, I remember her smiling, and the reason is not my amnesia. Even when she did, one could feel the sadness hiding behind her kind features. An atmosphere of grace and melancholy surrounded her; it wasn’t unusual for her to just saunter aimlessly sometimes, or contrary — to just sit in the armchair in the corner of the room, staring into the void, as if she saw something in there, something beyond the reach of other human beings. When she didn’t sell our modest crops in the market, she practiced folk medicine and herbalism. People in need of her help were nearly the only ones visiting our humble cabin deep in the woods. The cures my mother used were often verging on the border between science and magics, but always the kind the uninitiated call „white magic”: just some simple blessings and harmless potions. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, so I cannot imagine her ever diving into the territory of darker arts. 

„With a fancy towards weird shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if—” Husk went on, stopping as soon as he realized just how insensitive and disrespectful his words were. He did have some morals hidden deep inside his acrimonious soul after all, and even if he didn’t, the stern look on my face was quite telling. And so he backed out, his whole posture slouching. With softness I would never expect of him, he followed with „I’m sorry, son. That was uncalled for.” 

„I’m not your son.” I hissed, eyes squinting slightly. 

„We just…,” he tried to defend himself, „had so many investigations back then, the crime rates were skyrocketing, and you know your mother’s reputation and associations. We just assumed the ring belonged to her based on what we knew. It seemed logical.” 

„ _ Logical _ ? You call  _ that _ logical?!” I lost my cool completely. How  _ dare _ he say it? Rather than admit his mistakes, he would still try to find excuses? The anger pulsating through my veins got impossible to contain anymore. And caused me to lash out. „It was an easy solution, not the logical one. I shouldn’t be surprised. You solve nothing, just aggravate everyone who actually cares. And you wonder why people hate the police force and don’t trust it anymore. It’s just a matter of time before the consequences of your negligence come back to bite you.” 

„Son.” He raised his hand to put it on my shoulder in an attempt to calm me down. 

„I’m not your son.” I responded instinctively, harshly knocking his hand off my arm before he could even touch it. 

He pulled back, his massive eyebrows knotted. „Watch your tone, kid. I am not some newbie officer, and I wasn’t one back then either. You are talking to the best damn detective this city ever had, and fuck me if I didn’t do the best I could given the circumstances. Do you know how hard it is to find a culprit with the little data we had? Especially when the guilty fucker is nowhere to be found in the victim’s closest circle? Not to say how dangerous dealing with cultists is, even to the police—” 

„You have some nerve to say that to my face, Husk. I’m not afraid, and I’m more than willing to try to deal with them on my own.” My words were as cold as the ice Amusden had to face in the South Pole, but overflowing with volition. I knew my strengths and weaknesses. I didn’t need anyone mothering me; not after all the years, I spent fighting for everything as the orphan I was. 

„I know you are.” He reassured me but was met with more firmness. „That is why I was hesitant to give you access to the files. You have no experience, you are hot-headed, and son, I couldn’t let you—” 

„ **Call me son one more time.** **_”_ **

The silence which followed was unbearable and made me regret my outburst instantly. Husk did not deserve this — I knew he did what he could. He was just one man, and couldn’t be blamed for the faults of the entire system. Lashing out on him as I did was not only a major overstepping of a certain boundary. No, what I did was hurting a friend, who despite all his bluntness and gruff demeanor cared for me deeply through the many years we have known each other. He was the father I never had. I wasn’t right to judge him so, he was only human after all. I wanted to apologize, but the words just wouldn’t form. I was left speechless, at the worst moment possible. 

„Go home, Alastor.” He said firmly, his back turned to me. I couldn’t see his expression, causing me to panic even more than I already was. 

„Detective—” 

„Go home.” 

I stood there, trembling, with a hitching chest, feeling as if my body would collapse in on itself at any moment. I was more akin to a child than to a man I was insisting on being. I let Husk down, and the remorse and guilt I felt deep inside were suffocating. At this point, there was nothing I could do to fix what I have done. So I picked up my journal and the accursed ring, and slowly headed towards the door.

══════════════════ 

However, Husk wasn’t the only person I had to visit that day, and God help me if the other meeting didn’t make me even more stressed. With the Detective, I knew what to expect; I have known him for years. The same couldn’t be said about Charlotte Magne. 

Oh, Miss Magne. Ten days had passed since our fateful meeting in the forest. Even since then, my conscience has been tormenting me. I did feel responsible for the state she was in, and for my inability to help her. At the same time, I wasn’t sure whether stopping by her house was the right thing to do. After all, we were still strangers, and I knew her address only because of past necessity. Invading her like so didn’t seem proper at all, but neither did leaving the matter as it was, showing a complete lack of interest or remorse on my part. And so, between an active and a passive choice, in the end, I decided to choose the former. 

As a result, I found myself standing on Miss Magne’s doorstep once more. Although nowhere as impressive as the Bribery Hall I visited earlier that day, it still made me feel uneasy, although because of a very different reason. The stately mansion, with its exquisite detailing and beautiful flowery front yard, served as a reminder of the vast gap between our stations. I was just a poor university student, and she was… well, at that point I had no idea who she was, except for her wealth and quite liberated, maybe even suffragette-like demeanor. I didn’t even know her interests and education (although I did suspect it had something to do with medical arts), nor age, not to mention her marital status. 

The realization hit me at the worst moment possible. I squeezed the bundle in my hands and exhaled deeply before pushing the button by the door. The door opening stopped me mid-action; and here she was, the owner herself, standing in the entrance as if she had been expecting me. 

"Oh my, who do we have here!” She exclaimed, the expression of sheer surprise on her face. „What are you doing in those parts, Aleister?" 

"I just wanted to visit you, to check how you've been doing... and it's Alastor, actually." I rectified her, rubbing the back of my neck. Even though twisting my name was nothing new (honestly, if I had a dime for every time it happened, I wouldn’t have to worry about paying my taxes anymore), clearing this mistake up was still quite uncomfortable. Mother, just why did you have to be so original when you came out with „Alastor”? I would be content with being a simple „John” or even „Bob”, really! Would save me a ton of trouble! 

"Oh! It is! I am deeply sorry for such a terrible gaffe. In my defense, I was not in the best of states the last time we met.” I bit my lips, pangs of conscience growing in intensity. „I am much better now, though! I have even switched to a cane recently. I look like a proper gentleman...” Charlotte stopped to think for a while, putting a finger on her lips. „Or rather like a proper  _ gentlewoman _ , don’t I now?” She attempted to daintily twirl using her newest accessory but nearly tripped in the process, causing me to suffer a minor heart attack. Miss Magne herself, however, didn’t seem to notice her slight flop. Her little bow and a broad, theatrical hand wave caused me to chuckle. „Come on in!” 

”Thank you, Miss Magne, but I couldn’t impose myself—” 

”You certainly could, loverboy, and you will.” She cut my excuses short and I must say I was quite glad for that; guilty as charged, my words were nothing but a mere courtesy. In reality, I really wanted to visit her. The way Charlotte spoke made my stress vanish, until only the need to spend time with her remained. Although we were still strangers, I enjoyed Miss Magne’s company greatly. Her boldness was quite endearing and fresh; I admit being drawn to it immensely. She distracted me from my worries, and Heaven knows I needed that. „I am in dire need of a conversation partner, and the front door, as it happens, is far from being the preferable spot for any kind of  _ tête-à-tête _ . The nosiness of uptown residents is not so different from the French Quarter folk, let me tell you.” She gestured to me to follow her inside. „And please, you can call me Charlotte.” 

The manor’s interior came as a bit of surprise to me, bearing little to no resemblance to Miss Magne herself, except for its striking elegance and finesse. While the outside of the manor was quite bright, the inside reminded me of the Gothic Revival with its dark, muted colors and terracotta wallpaper. It was filled with various trinkets and tchotchkes, arranged in a tasteful, cohesive whole. To many it might seem overwhelming, but not to me. If anything, it seemed familiar and welcoming. The abundance of plants reminded me of times long since passed — my mother adored all kinds of greenery, too. Just as her, Miss Magne liked dried flowers as well as the live ones, seeing that an entire shelf was filled with bunches of blossoms I couldn’t name. One particular kind caught my attention. These florets were akin to a bell in shape, quite small, the petals lustreless purple with green tinges. Somehow, at the back of my head, lied the belief I should have recognized them. Before I could inspect the flowers in question closer, however, I was interrupted by the hostess. 

”Please, do sit down and make yourself at home.” She said while looking curiously at the package in my hands. „If I might be so bold as to ask, what are you clutching so tightly?” 

Hearing that made me skip in my place, startled. How could I forget? „Ah! It’s for you.” I nervously adjusted my bowtie. „I didn’t want to come empty-handed, so I made you some jambalaya… my mother’s recipe! I remember it being helpful in fighting diseases. Well, your condition is not exactly an illness, and I don’t think food promoting tissue growth exists, but… yes! It’s tasty nonetheless! I hope! Here!” I stammered and handed it to her, bowing. My awkward reaction made her smile slightly. 

„Oh, so you cook? Well if it isn’t an extraordinary hobby for a man!” The hostess exclaimed, most likely sensing a great conversation starter. 

„It’s more of the necessity rather than passion, given I live alone, Miss Ma- Charlotte.” I corrected myself. „Although I do admit, I enjoy the process of preparing meals. I find it relaxing.” 

„Cannot say the same about me. I might live alone, too, but for the sake of your sanity and well-being you should do better than to ever accept anything I cooked or brewed if such an unheard-of happening would come about.” 

This simple reply provided answers to my previously asked questions, but at the same raised some more points I started to ponder on. I learned she didn’t have a husband — at least not at that point in time — and lived on her own, which seemed quite strange. For example, why didn’t someone of her station and wealth have a maid? I imagined keeping such a great mansion in an orderly state to be time-consuming, and at least from what I saw, the residence was completely spotless. Additionally, what was the source of her wealth, if not a well-off marriage? Was she an heiress of sorts? All that baffled me, but I knew better than to ask her any of it. I was not the one to pry, especially when just a few minutes ago I learned of Charlotte’s disapproval of any kind of gossip. And so, I just blurted out „it can’t be that bad!” as a reply to her previous statement. 

„Believe me, loverboy. It can. And it is. But I would rather not bother you with stories of my failed culinary attempts, with mayhaps poisoning certain unlucky individuals in the process. I don’t want to risk you losing your appetite!” Charlotte laughed while extracting the jambalaya from the metal box and equally dividing it onto two exquisite porcelain plates. I tried to protest — after all, I made it for her and her  _ only _ — but there was no point discussing anything with Miss Magne once she put her mind to something. She would not take no for an answer, persisting anything less than offering me dinner would be improper, even if I was the one to actually cook it. „But enough about my humble person,” she said once we got to eating. „Tell me something about yourself, Alastor.” 

And here we are. The worst question. The list of possible answers to it is vast and extremely varied, because really, what does a person inquiring want to know? My occupation? My favorite color? The detailed description of my most traumatic childhood experience? Alright, maybe not the last one, but still! The world would be a much simpler place if we didn’t interrogate our conversation partners. 

However, I didn’t say anything about that. No, I simply opted for the first possibility, uttering with hesitance apparent in my voice, „uhm, well… I am a student. At Tulane. I study engineering.” 

„Tulane? Oh dear, my Alma Mater! It is simply swell to see it having such keen students still!” Charlotte exclaimed akin to a stately matron, content with the brightness of her grandchildren. I won’t lie, it made me suddenly question her age. Just how old was she to talk to me like I was a mere kid? I was twenty! I was an  _ adult _ ! And she looked my age! 

Looking back at it, all that naïveté of mine was positively precious. Somehow I didn’t stop to think about the deception of looks, especially when someone was blessed — or cursed — with a soft, childlike face like hers. A person nearing the third decade of their life may well have the appearance of a teenager. A person looking innocent might be the most despicable being on Earth. A person acting stupid might actually be highly intelligent, well-versed in everything modern science had to provide. 

„A great career path choice. An  _ inventor _ . As exciting as it is profitable, I presume? The progress nowadays is so rapid, surely a plethora of clever young men can find suitable job opportunities,” she matter-of-factly stated. 

„Yes, I guess it is… not exactly in my chosen line of work, no. Not  _ currently _ , at least. But it will be in the future! I am sure of it!” 

„Oh?” She tilted her head and looked at me curiously. „And what would it be?” 

„The radio! As soon as I finish up my studies, I will move to New York and apply for the position of a broadcaster. Or rather, a radio personality!” 

„Well! A novelty, that certainly is. I cannot say I have ever heard of such a strange profession!”

And thus, the Pandora box opened. 

„Because it’s a completely new field of entertainment! Dots and dashes are going out of date, and we are entering a completely different age, an age more suitable for our busy lives, when one doesn’t have to allocate time specifically for reading a newspaper. Can you imagine a world where everyone can just  _ listen _ to the news while preparing breakfast or listen to music during boring work hours, or while unwinding after a long day? Oh, the idea of using radio for these purposes is simply phenomenal! The money we spend on records could be saved for different purposes, not to mention how beneficial for young artists trying to make a name for themselves would that be… I’m- I’m sorry, I tend to get a bit overexcited about these matters.” 

Yes, it did take me a while to realize I had just suddenly started monologuing, flooding poor Miss Magne with my words. Not letting go (and boring to death in the process) everyone willing to listen about my past-time was, and may still be my great vice. But, to my surprise, Charlotte really seemed eager and interested — without any sign of ennui, she just sat on her beautiful, antique chaise longue, leaning on her elbow, piercing me with those deep, dark, shrewd eyes of hers, not moving even an inch. 

„Oh, no, it’s completely fine! Quite adorable even, I might say. Please do continue, Alastor, as I am always glad to broaden my horizons. Although I must admit such ideas are to be considered more of a fantasy than a reality, I fear.” 

_ Adorable _ ? How did I feel about being called  _ adorable _ ? Hard to say, really. I remember it being a mixture of confusion and embarrassment with just a pinch of warm fuzziness caused by what can be considered a compliment. Usually, I would probably be quite hurt by the patronizing attitude of my companion. However, it is Charlotte Magne we are talking about; and even at that point in time, as I have probably stated way too many times already, I knew she was no ordinary woman. Deep inside of her was a fire running wild, an unbridled flame, a passion, which so many people lacked. And I sensed that, and somehow it made me feel like I could achieve anything I wanted, too. It gave me the confidence I so desperately needed. 

„With all due respect, Charlotte, but such skepticism is not needed! All of that will certainly become a reality soon enough! Wireless newspapers are already happening in New York City, and have you heard about  Frank Conrad’s latest doings2 ?” 

„Cannot say I have, no,” she smirked, clearly amused by my unexpected firmness. 

„The man is a genius! Even without the resources of an actual radio station, like the Highbridge one, he managed to start a weekly schedule of broadcasts with an amazing variety of content, like news, continued reading, even music! The way he does it is by putting the phonograph in front of a microphone, from what I heard. Could be improved, I can imagine audio quality suffering terribly with that method, but that’s something I can find a solution for in the future. For now, his system is a brilliant way to bring the wonders of radio into everyday homes, as long as the residents are willing to move forward with the spirit of our times.” 

Charlotte straightened up in her seat. „Have I heard correctly,  _ you _ could improve it? So, does it mean you are broadcasting  _ already _ ?” 

I felt the heat going up to my face. I should have been more careful, and not let it slip like so. „I- I do, actually. Every Tuesday and Saturday, at 6 pm.” 

„Why then, it seems I have new plans for the evening. Unless I am not in range?” 

„You actually are, Charlotte.” I confirmed. „I don’t think more than five miles separate our houses, but— do you  _ really _ want to listen? I’m just an amateur…” I uttered, nearly in a whisper. It seemed so unreal someone would actually  _ want _ to hear my broadcast; all I experienced up to that point were harsh words of my neighbors, sometimes delivered with a nice little threat to stop my ridiculous shenanigans and the interrupting of frequencies they wanted to use. I might have had a tomato or two thrown in my direction on the French Market as soon as my voice got recognized, too. So, to have someone  _ uptown _ be my listener? It was like a dream come true.

A dream that could easily turn into a nightmare, if I messed up.

Which I was prone to do.

Oh, God. 

══════════════════ 

For a little while longer I stayed at Miss Magne’s residence, chatting my worries away. She insisted on not minding my little to none experience, and that I would surely entertain her greatly. Charlotte also stated that, from her understanding, the most important factor in „this radio shenanigan of mine” seems to be an amusing and captivating personality, which — and I quote — I had an abundance of. To my surprise, she even owned a suitable receiver. Her crystal set was of fine quality, with its black bakelite body and an easy to use tuning dial, not even mentioning the comfortable earphones I wished I had owned myself. Why did she have those items, to this day remains a mystery to me. Maybe she was a collector of curiosities? Maybe someone gifted it to her? Whatever the answer, I was just glad for not having to build the receiver on the spot. Even though the construction of a crystal set is quite easy — just a piece of wire for an antenna and a coil, a crystal and something to substitute for headphones — it took the time I didn’t have. Before I knew it, the sun was already setting, and I had to literally run back home to get ready for my broadcast. 

Nervously scrolling through my notes, I realized that for the first time since I started my auditions, I felt a stage fright of sorts. I haven’t experienced it before, the main reason being my lack of actual listeners, or at least the willing kind. This time, I knew someone was going to hear me talk; and what someone Miss Magne was! 

That woman was one of the most extraordinary people I have ever met, and I was set on showing her the side of me that wasn’t just an „adorable kid”. Once I sat before my microphone, my shyness and awkwardness disappeared, and suddenly my confidence was more like that of Rudolph Valentino than what could at best be described as a more pitiful version of Charlie Chaplin. She needed to see this aspect of me.  _ I _ needed her to see this aspect of me, to see me as an equal. And so, there was no way I would screw up my audition that day. 

Slapping both my cheeks a bit to somehow gather courage, I took steps up to my radio station, which most people would most probably describe simply as an attic filled with a pile of junk. Me, however? I loved every single Tesla coil, amplifier, and transmitter. I built most of them myself, and even though a lot of times their performance left much to be desired, they were like my precious children. As weird as it might sound. 

Praying for them to not start malfunctioning on me, I stretched in my seat in an attempt to relieve myself of the stiffness in my shoulders and turned on the apparatus. 

There was no going back now. 

„Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to my broadcast! I hope your evening is going well, and you are ready to unwind while listening to what’s been going on in the world and of course our beloved city of New Orleans. Even though the news isn't really relaxing! Ha-haha!” 

Wow, an evil charismatic laugh, nice going, Alastor. Totally what I have been planning to do, and completely not creepy at all. But hey, at least I haven’t stammered, so that’s a positive. Especially considering the stress freezing my blood. Right? 

„So! Starting with far-away Europe. British and Canadian forces were forced to call off counterattacks and to consolidate defenses in the actions of St Eloi Craters after air reconnaissance spotted the Germans rebuilt much of their front trench line. However, as the Battle of Verdun continues, France managed to counter-attack German-held positions at Meuse and Douaumont. Our thoughts and prayers go to our European allies, and of course to our brave American boys, who are currently starting to be placed on front-line duties as parts of French troops.” 

I clapped and grabbed the microphone, leaning on my chair more comfortably, tilting it backward. „But! Moving on from such boorish topics as war, am I right, folks? Some great news for our lady listeners from Canada! Women were given the full right to vote Alberta, being the third Canadian province to do so, after Manitoba and Saskatchewan. The suffrage movement triumphs and I sincerely hope our great nation won’t lag behind the Monarchy of Canada any further, granting the gentler sex full suffrage in the remaining thirty-seven states. Women of Louisiana, keep fighting!”

Hoping my special listener appreciated that particular bit of information, I relaxed, feeling more comfortable with the next segment of my broadcast. „For the cultural news — as always, there are many amazing performances to see at the French Opera House. From the plays already on the repertoire, I highly recommend ‚Elektra’, Strauss’s extraordinary reinterpretation of a Greek myth, focusing on the main character’s furious lust for revenge for the death of her parent. In the fall an old play, although never seen before on the stages of New Orleans will be staged as well — ‚The Revenger’s Tragedy’, a 17th-century story of a man brooding over his fiancee’s death, and the blood-thirsty actions that followed…” 

Just as I finished, I realized all the plays I have chosen are tragic and grotesque, and most likely not at all the type any lady would like, even an original like Miss Charlotte. Cursing my artistic taste and the lack of thinking, I quickly rustled through the record box on a shelf just by my desk, trying to find something more suitable and calming after such  _ faux pas _ . Filling the time with some talk, which I hope wasn’t unbearable nonsense, I continued the search for a little while until finally, the right record found its way to my fingertips. Content, I put it out and carefully placed it in the phonograph.

**♫ Al Jolson - You're a Dangerous Girl (1916) ♫**

„Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to today’s broadcast. Once again I wish you a fine evening, and as always — stay tuned.” 

With that, I pressed the pickup head, and suddenly the whole room was filled with soft, slurring tones of a man’s voice, intertwined beautifully with acoustic sounds of strings and winds. I closed my eyes, losing myself in the lyric melody.

_I love you, I love you_

_You're just the kind of gal for me_

_But there is something about you_

_Makes me doubt you_

_Why, oh! why must it be?_

_You dare me, oh, then you scare me_

_Still I love you more each day_

_Oh, you're the kind that will charm_

_And then do harm_

_What makes you act that way?_

_Oh, you're beautiful, yes beautiful_

_You're wonderful, I know_

_You're just the kind of a gal_

_That fools them all_

_And when you got_ ’ _em where you want_ ’ _em_

 _You let_ ’ _em fall_

_I'm fond of ya_

_ B̜̱̭̜͓̘͉u͉͉͖̹̪̻t̪̱̤̼ ͕I͎͍̮'͇͇͈m̞͙ o̥̠̫̼̪n̦̤̫͍̰̱̤ ̗̣̫̼̳̮t̰o̹̜̱ ̙͎͔̥y̬̣a̻̦̝̰ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In the Major Arcana, Justice card is associated with not only the conclusion of, not surprisingly, a lawsuit, but also of other issues, too. In its upright position, it symbolises a fair outcome, but reversed indicates injustice and wrongdoings. It’s also related to all things connected with the judicial system and law enforcement, crimes included._  
>    
>  Well, that ending certainly was a little foreboding, but, alas! The second chapter! As the investigation commences, our darlings grow closer together. Where that will take us, I wonder…  
>  I’m very thankful for the warm welcome I received with the first installment, and I hope this chapter was to your liking, too ~~despite the huge info dump~~  
>  Once again, I am open for feedback, both regarding the contents, as well as the formatting. I do admit, it was a bit challenging (and in the end I had to give up on quite a few other tricks I wanted to include), so I certainly hope it works ^^;; However, if the embedded song broke, you can listen to it for example [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpRNGjmD9Cg)!  
>    
>  **Footnotes** because I am deranged indeed, and will include some from time to time, what’cha gonna do  
>    
>  1 Storyville, the red district of New Orleans, closed on November 12, 1917, so a year and a half after the events of this chapter. ~~I suppose Husk actually having, _gasp_ , a heart isn’t that unprobable after all.~~  
>    
>  2 It should be clarified that even though Frank Conrad was a pioneer and did start his amateur radio station in the summer of 1916, his entertainment and music broadcasts began after the ban on civilian radio was lifted in October, 1919, so a few years after the timeframe of this chapter.


	3. The Hierophant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this chapter is pretty chill, please be aware some serious topics will be discussed, namely **discrimination on the grounds of race, nationality, language and gender** , so if those subjects are potentially triggering to you, consider skipping the second part of this installment.

Monday, June 5, 1916 

The faint light of an Emeralite shone gently on the sheets of paper, the letters moving on the pages as if dancing. And, however enticing it might sound, it was in no way pleasant, rather serving as a plain indicator of my tiredness.

The past seven weeks flew by fast, filled with various duties and obligations I had to attend to. Between the exams and work, I had next to no time for myself; and what I had left, I dedicated to spending with darling Miss Charlotte. After the warm welcome I received, described so meticulously in the previous entry, I no longer had any reason to avoid visiting her, maybe except for the nosiness of her neighbors. Neverminding them, I became quite a frequent visitor on Prytania Street, keeping Charlotte company, and helping with whatever she requested of me, which usually meant cooking.

I didn’t have to potter around her kitchen a lot, though — she ate like a bird, much to my concern. Time and time again Charlotte reassured me I shouldn’t worry, because neither my culinary abilities, nor any supposed illness were the reason for that. Any further concerns on my part she dismissed; so, I was just left to hope Miss Magne wasn’t following any sort of dietary regime, seeing she was already so thin.

But, all in all, Charlotte’s recovery was going swiftly and not much was left from our April predicament, except for her fatigue after particularly long walks. Thus, my help was no longer needed to the extent it was in the beginning; and since my exams recently finished as well, I finally had time to go back to my investigation.

After my outburst at the police station, I admit to feeling quite anxious about going back there. I regretted taking out my anger at Husk, and even though he deserved an apology, I stalled as much as I could, afraid of his reaction. But, as time passed, my conscience grew unbearably heavy, and not only — without finishing coping the material, my notes were incomplete, and so I had no choice other than to go visit the Bribery Hall again. To my surprise — and gratitude — the Detective behaved as if nothing had happened. I suppose he must have understood the reason behind my behavior. It doesn’t make it right, I agree, but at least my relationship with the grumpy officer wasn’t permanently damaged.

As soon as I finished gathering and organizing the files, I started to ponder where I should start with the actual investigation. In the end, I decided to do what I, as a student, knew how to do best — that is to visit the library and research for anything of substance concerning the cultist matters the previous scrutiny ignored. So, for two weeks, I spent next to every single moment there, with books and coffee my trusty companions.

The sheer intensity of the search was taking a toll on me. The library collection was vast, which was both useful and problematic at the same time. I had a lot to read — and seeing I didn’t know where to start, it was all the more tough and frustrating. My priority was to decipher the symbols on the ring; whatever was hiding in there was surely a major clue. Once I could understand them, everything would go smoothly.

Ha! Easier said than done. 

„‚ _The Book of the Goetia of Solomon the King. Translated into the English tongue by a dead hand_ ’ by A. Crowley… Didn’t take you for a witchy type,” a soft voice declared mere inches over my head. Interrupted, I raised my eyes to its source. The plump, short girl with a scandalous Marcel wave bob leaned forward to me, holding the aforementioned volume in her hand. 

I smiled. „Hello, Mimzy.”

Mimzy Hannigan was one of my dearest and closest friends, whom I had met as a freshman at the College of Arts and Sciences, where I took an elective course in journalism. She introduced me, back then even more of an unsure and confused kid, to everything I needed to know about both Tulane itself and all the aspects of student life. Quite a socially engaged person, this one was: a very active member of the drama club, and a singer, frequently performing at various jazz clubs scattered around Crescent City.

She was a girl of many talents, but one puzzling in particular: we could stop talking for weeks (usually the result of my introverted nature), but as soon as we met, it seemed as if no time had passed at all. Her tendency to appear out of thin air as soon as I needed her was a curious one, too. She knew everything about me, and I trusted her greatly; nonetheless, I sometimes tried to avoid certain details of my life (so, for example, my horrible sleeping schedule and prolonged cramming at the library), out of fear she might worry about me much more than needed.

Mimzy, however, wasn’t stupid by any means, and — like most women — had a great eye for noticing things. And so, an interrogation began.

„What are you doing here, reading all that mojo? I thought your exams have finished already?”

„They did. I just have something else to research.”

„Another weird journalism project?”

„I guess you could say that,” I smiled weakly. Although Mimzy was aware of my past, as well as my quest to continue the investigation of my mother’s murder, I didn’t intend to tell her anything, at least not so soon; and for a few good reasons. First of all, as Husk enucleated me as a harsh reality check, pursuing this case could be dangerous, and I didn’t want to risk her well-being — especially when I was sure she would insist on helping me. Secondly, at that point, I had nothing; I was at a loss and frankly, didn’t have anything substantial to tell her. And so, deceiving her — although morally ambiguous to say the least — was the right thing to do. The _rational_ thing to do. The thing that one’s sensible mind would advise them.

„Either way, you look like shit, Al.” She bluntly stated. Can’t say she was wrong, though. No amount of liquid face powder or any other female gizmos would be able to hide the deep dark circles under my slumberous eyes.

„Sleep is—”

„—for the weak.” Mimzy finished my sentence with a scoff and an eye roll. Gracefully, she sat on the chair next to mine. Taking a sip of coffee from my vacuum tube, she gestured towards the stashes of volumes on the desk. „Whatever you are to do, no summer break assignment is worth losing one’s sleep over. Please, consider at least taking a break, for the sake of your health.”

„I can’t,” I stated with, honestly rather weak, conviction, piercing her with a stern gaze. She remained unwavered.

„Why not? Ooh, don’t tell me the straight-A student, Alastor Laurent, slacked off like the rest of us mere mortals, and now has to work against the deadlines like his life depends on it? My, my, I should write this date down in my calendar, for the next generation to—” 

„It’s my mother, Mimzy.” I interrupted. „I got access to the files.” 

I prided myself in being quite an astute person, rarely following just my heart’s desire to make decisions, even if at this point I presume it has been established I was _nothing_ of the sort. I was _convinced_ of my supposed level-headedness, but, looking back, I see I simply didn’t allow myself to think otherwise. The suffering I experienced made me try to suppress my emotions, change the very core of my being. I hated being a trusting person, and I thought if I kept things to myself, I would be safe from harm. I must have believed such a drastic change in temperament to be possible. Oh, how naïve! No wonder it didn’t take long for it to become one of the main sources of all my problems and tragedies to arise not much further in the future.

And also, to crack and change my resolve without many persuasions on Mimzy’s side, if any at all.

Expression on my friend’s face started changing rapidly, as she was aware of this topic’s sensitivity. Her lips pressed together tightly, and her whole stance stiffened. For a few seconds, Mimzy was lost in thought, until I saw a tint of excitement in her eyes. Her features, however, remained tense. Even though I was _not_ as fragile as she must have imagined, she still threaded carefully, most likely analyzing every word before it was said out loud.

„You did? My God, Al! I’m so glad your effort finally paid off. I know how you struggled with convincing those old geezers… What did you learn?” As soon as she queried that, Mimzy squinted her eyes and rapidly jerked her head, rectifying herself. „Of course, only if you are willing to tell. You know I don’t want to pry, I just worry. And, if I’m being honest, it looks like you are in a dire need of help. Which maybe I could provide?” She once again glanced at the desk, its wooden surface barely visible under all the scattered pages of paper, notes, copies, and books. Then her gaze focused on me: gentle, but firm. Drilling me for an answer.

I knew she was right. I was in over my head, and with my limited knowledge in humanities, could appreciate the help of someone with more expertise. And I knew her all too well — now that she was aware of what had been giving me sleepless nights, she wouldn’t take no for an answer, as long as the issue loomed large in my mind. With her, there was no way of playing the hero or pretending to be stronger than one was. And so, not without a heart filled with worry, I accepted her help.

„Yes, I… I guess I have overestimated myself. Thank you, Mimzy. I appreciate it.” 

She smiled warmly. „Don’t mention it. That’s what friends are for!” A loud clap of hands followed. „So! Is there anything good ol’ Mimzy could assist you with, Mr. Holmes?”

I chuckled at the joke. „Yes indeed, my dear Watson. Do these symbols remind you of anything at all?” I asked, extending hand in her direction. She took the ring and thoroughly inspected the item, turning the piece of jewelry around and holding it up against the light. 

„They do. I have seen them before somewhere… I just can’t put my finger on it,” she muttered with an inward gaze and an intense expression.

At this point, I must tell you about one of my great vices. When tired and stressed, a crippling inability to sustain a serious mood takes over me. It might be considered childish, yes, but isn’t it also so very human? After all, once things get too real, we tend to hide behind the façade of humor. I was no exception. And so, only half-joking, breaking the mood, I exclaimed: 

„Ha! My intuition was correct, then. They do look very Hebrew.”

„ _Hebrew?_ ” Mimzy was completely put off her stroke. „Why- Have you ever _seen_ Hebrew? It looks _nothing_ like it!”

„It does, though! I wonder, maybe it’s an ancient variety? What do you think, Miriam?”

Her face was red with irritation. „Don’t you dare ‚Miriam’ me, you idiot.” She stopped in her tracks. „Wait a second. Did you just Jew-joke me?”

„No, what are you even implying, dear Miriam? It wasn’t a Jew joke, I was being completely serious. You know me, I would _never_ make fun of your ancient Jerusalem heritage.”

She did know me, alright. Enough to recognize my horrible sense of humor in a matter of seconds.

Totally worth it, though. 

„Listen here, you smug Creole _asshole_ —” 

„As jocular as your heated discussion is, dears, I am afraid I have to interrupt.” I heard a soft, feminine voice say behind my back. „The librarian might find it less amusing than my humble persona.” 

I rapidly turned around. „Ch-Charlotte? What are you doing here? …Have you been listening in for a while?” I hesitantly added, wary as to not sound rude. 

„Why, of course not! That would be quite improper of me, wouldn’t it? Alas, I suppose I ought to explain myself.” She leaned in, hands on her back, with an unreadable smile gracing her face. „I came to the library for a research of my own, but once I saw you so engaged in a conversation, I could not help but join! I hope you don’t mind?” Before I reacted in any way, she curiously glanced at the desk in front of me. „Are you perhaps reading something riveting, or maybe even _spellbinding_?”

„No no no!” I blurted out, startled. „Not at all! Just some boorish _nonsense_ ! _Completely_ unworthy of any of your attention!” I quickly stood up, spreading my arms a bit, in a futile attempt to limit her field of vision. I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea; what would Charlotte think if she saw me studying _magic_ ? She was a woman of high society, of _science,_ she would surely deem me a backward, superstitious fool! No, no, this I wouldn’t allow! 

And so, with grace peculiar only to _moi_ , I made all the volumes fall from the desk and onto the floor. „Oh-! I’m sorry about that. Let me just—”

Entering another level of stress and damning my ridiculous clumsiness, I bent down to gather them all. Obviously, though, the natural perversity of inanimate objects had to hit me hard, as if I was a bubbly heroine of a romantic comedy novel for adolescents. _Literally_ hit me. For whatever unknown reason, I sprung up, the impact with the oak piece of furniture making my ears ring terribly. I massaged the aching spot on my head, which would probably bruise later. “ _Shit_ ,” I uttered, as the remaining coffee spilled all over the table. 

„However unfortunate, there is no need to use such foul language!” Charlotte exclaimed playfully, getting down to help me pick up the books before I could stop her. As she glanced at the cover of the one in her hands, for just a moment, her movements froze mid-air. As quickly as she lost it, her composure returned, and she handled the volume to me with a warm twinkle. „It doesn’t do to treat books like this.” 

I returned the smile, in my mind desperately trying to come up with a change of topic, worried Charlotte might inquire about my rather bizarre choice of literature. Because of an unknown reason, the perfect conversation starter in the shape of an introduction between my two female companions somehow skipped my mind. No, I was just awkwardly standing there, dumbfounded, while Mimzy did her best to wipe out the coffee spill. Charlotte, on the other hand, sat comfortably in front of me, her smug smile unwavering.

„What lovely weather we are having today! So refreshing!” I blundered out just when the silence was beginning to get too awkward. 

The declaration was met with the confounded stares of both girls. „Alright, your brain has officially evaporated completely… well, understandable in this heat.” Mimzy matter-of-factly stated, with a slight falter in her voice. „It’s been a total _Hell_ out there, Alastor. Ridiculous heatwave and not a single drop of rain.” 

" _Oh._ I guess today isn't that good, then!" I exclaimed, a bit too enthusiastically. 

”Verily,” Charlotte added, ”it has been going on for a tad bit longer than a day, loverboy. A week or so at least, I recall?” 

Both I and Mimzy looked at her with our eyes wide open, but because of two vastly different reasons. Me, I was shocked to learn, or rather realize, exactly how much of the outside world have I been missing during my library escapades; and because of that reason, coming up with a clever retort has proven to be quite perplexing. Mimzy, on the other hand, I can safely assume wasn’t exactly keen on hearing a stranger calling me with such peculiar terms of endearment. 

„Well then, this _week_ hasn’t been that good!” I tried to joke, chuckling nervously. While I couldn’t read the expression painting on Charlotte’s face, Mimzy’s one was clear as day. She didn’t find it funny. Not in the least. 

„Have you _seen_ the sun recently, Al? Even _once_?” 

„Sun? I don’t know her.” Even before those words escaped my mouth, I knew them to be a terrible idea. However, what else could I do? Admit I’ve lost myself, overworking and completely disregarding the outside world, and I guess my own well-being? What good would that do? Let’s face it, any lecture she could give me would just go in one ear and out the other. Could as well try my best to save her the trouble and just try to dismiss it jokingly. 

Not surprisingly, Mimzy wasn’t in the mood, and still worried. Being as close to me as she was, she knew better than to dwell on the subject, because once I’ve set my mind to something, there was no going back. The only thing that could be done to save _me,_ the stubborn mule I was, from dying of exhaustion, was giving way and providing support in other ways than pointing out my bad habits. And so, she just sighed, disheartened. „You should take better care of yourself,” she finally added. 

„Fully agreed with the lovely companion of yours,” Charlotte stated further, swinging on her chair with my vacuum tube in hand, eyeing Miss Hannigan intently. 

Only then it occurred to me; I still haven’t introduced them to each other! Even if the reason for that was the sheer speed of the discussion, combined with my tiredness, I couldn’t help but mentally reprimand myself for this rudeness. „Oh, yes! Charlotte, please meet Miss Mimzy Hannigan, my dearest friend, and a great singer, a rising star indeed.” The songbird blushed, hearing the compliment, while the other lady just smirked. „Mimzy, Miss Charlotte Magne. I’ve told you about her?” I stated, although it must have sounded more like a question due to the waver in my voice. You see, with all that’s been going on in the last few weeks, keeping track of what I have done, and what was false memory or a dream, was a challenge. The possibility of me raving about my fascinating new acquaintance was quite significant, though. 

Mimzy put a finger on her round lips, tapping them gently. After a short while, she confirmed. „Charlotte, Charlotte… the girl you shot in the woods, and since then haven’t stopped talking about? Yes, I recall the name. The pleasure is all mine, Miss Magne,” Mimzy smiled her brightest smile at the lady in question, bowing slightly. 

„Thank you for this very direct remark, Mimzy dear,” I said, my eyes shooting daggers. Oh, how I loved this girl (platonically, mind you), but sometimes wanted to strangle her nonetheless. I made a promise to myself of reminding her later to not, under any circumstances, embarrass me in front of a lady ever again. And no, I wouldn’t accept the supposed willingness to help end my bachelorship as an excuse, nu-uh. As you can expect, the promised **talk** didn’t go well, and Mimzy laughed me off. Just like back then, I was left with nothing but a hope that Charlotte somehow wouldn’t mind her comment. It was naïve, I know. After all, Miss Magne was always as sharp as a knife fresh out of a cutlery workshop. 

And so, with ease, she wiped the smirk out of Mimzy’s face. „Miss Hannigan, a pleasure to meet you too! Unfortunately, I cannot say I have heard anything about you. I would gladly come to attend one of your performances, but I am anything but a regular at Storyville establishments,” she grinned, while I opened my mouth in disbelief (although I must say I did find this snide comment entertaining) and Mimzy burned red in anger. „Oh dear, how I love your flair! So progressive, _à la mode_ indeed!” Charlotte exclaimed, theatrically covering her mouth.

Mimzy, in return, gave as good as one gets. Not a trace of embarrassment in her demeanor, the flapper effortlessly ran her fingers through the bob, fixing it slightly. „I have always believed looking forward and following the trends to be better than dwelling on the past. Not to say I don’t like your _chignon_. It’s rather lovely, so modest and suitable for a humdrum Uptown lady.”

I expected a swift retort to follow, once again, bringing Mimzy down, but nothing of the sorts happened. No - Charlotte stilled, not fidgeting in the chair anymore nor running her finger around the brim of my thermos. Immediately, there was an emptiness in her gaze, and she seemed to have wandered somewhere far beyond our reach. The somberness filling the room was so sudden, so overwhelming, and so very grave. In face of it, Mimzy seemed to feel uneasy, too — maybe even guilty of something neither of us could understand.

„Charlotte?” I asked, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. She jerked her head, startled, but as if by magic, was back to her usual, smug self. 

„I am certainly flattered you think so, Miss Hannigan. Perhaps we should all meet over a cup of tea to converse further? After all, the library is not the most suitable—” 

„ **No!** ” I screeched, causing all the book worms in the proximity to turn their backs at me and _‘shush!’_ in a rather hostile way, proving Charlotte’s point. Both her and Mimzy just looked at me, probably wondering if all that reading has made me lose the few marbles I had left. But, can I be blamed? Could you _imagine_ these two being civil with each other, unrestrained by the university campus rules? What would I do, caught up between them? I’m just a shabby, helpless lion, what can I do against two lionesses?

Yes, now you can stop laughing. I’m as much a lion as Bruce Ismay1 is. Okay, maybe a _little_ tiny bit more than him, but you get the point.

Also, I would lie if I said I wouldn’t enjoy a little _rendezvous_ with Miss Charlotte _alone_ , just the two of us. Call me a hopeless idiot, but the more time I spent with her, the more I _needed_ to see her. I _craved_ her company. Somehow, just having her near worked like the best panacea in the world for all my worries. Was it her calming voice? Or maybe her elegant mannerism, with just the right amount of confidence added in the mix? Something else? I still don’t know, but with each passing day, I was falling for her more, although at that point in time I wouldn’t dare to admit it to anyone, _especially_ her. I was too old for dumb puppy love, it didn’t suit a bachelor like myself! 

Not that it needed admitting. Looking back, my feelings were clear as day. For better, or for worse. 

„I mean,” I cleared my throat, „Mimzy said she’s occupied for the rest of the day, and needed to excuse herself soon, so I suppose she cannot entertain us any further. Isn’t that right, Mimzy?” I turned to her, with a beggarly gaze. 

Of course, she understood my intentions right off the bat. She wasn’t satisfied with them — clear in her pressed lips and slow sigh — but, as the friend she was, she wouldn’t try to incommode me. At least not in such circumstances. And so, not without rolling her eyes, she went „Oh, yes, of course. I have _so very important_ previous arrangements, that I just _cannot_ spend even a _minute_ more in your lovely company!” As she proclaimed that, Mimzy grabbed my research notebook, lying on the top of the book stack. „I’ll continue working on this project, and let you know the progress the next time we meet. Hopefully soon. Alright?”

I tensed, seeing her grab my journal just like that, but I knew better than to let this feeling known to Charlotte; I was completely not comfortable telling her about its contents, or as little as hinting how important to me it was. Moreover, Mimzy was a great humanities student with excellent research skills of her own, so there was a high chance she would have more luck decoding it all than me. I was book-smart, yes, and great at anything involving creating intricate schemes and mechanisms, while she probably would have problems assembling a simple cabinet; but when it came to fact-finding, Miriam Hannigan was second to none. „Yes, thank you, dear. We’ll discuss it some other time,” I said, hoping to Heavens I sounded natural. 

With that, Mimzy waved her hand and left, leaving me alone with Charlotte. After a while, she smiled charmingly at me, making my heart melt just a bit more. 

„Well… I suppose that means we can take our leave. Now I think of it, I know a beautiful place…”

══════════════════ 

Back then, ecstatic to go out with lovely Miss Charlotte Magne, I thought there could be nothing which could make me take my eyes off of her, with her striking dark eyes and slender silhouette. I was sure of it, as I followed her graceful steps into a place I had passed by many times in my life, though never entering. While Opera House was open for all, and I was its frequent visitor due to my, please don’t laugh, rising radio star career, I never dared to set my foot in the Café de L’Opera. It was one of those restaurants a person wouldn’t dream of entering without a brand-new evening tailcoat of the highest quality wool and a top hat to match. I never was a high society kind of man - more of a I-might-find-a-worn-out-tuxedo-somewhere-in-the-attic kind of man, so the restaurant was out of my reach.

It wasn’t for Charlotte, though. Despite her casual flared skirt and crepe blouse set, she walked in as if she owned the place, smiling at the receptionist and waving at the waiters, who — having their hands occupied — only nodded, happy to see her as well. Myself, I was just taking in the view, admiring the tall, white walls and the intricate gold stucco ornaments, all of them so overwhelming in their dazzling beauty. Thankfully, Miss Magne insisted on taking me by the arm, or else I would have surely tripped on the lush maroon carpets, forgetting to get my head down and watch my step. After a small chit-chat with _maître d'hôtel_ , Charlotte finally made her way to a table in a more cozy part of the restaurant, tucked in behind a sumptuous silk curtain. I like to think she chose that one for my comfort, seeing how overwhelmed I was. 

„And… how do you like the place?” Charlotte asked, resting her chin on the top of her hands and looking at me intently from under her ridiculously long, dark lashes. 

„I… I can’t even find the words. It’s breathtaking! I supposed the Opera House’s restaurant would be grand, but not,” I made a wide gesture, „like _this_!”

She chuckled. „I’m glad it’s to your liking, then. _L’escargots_ are marvelous here if you were divagating over a meal choice.” 

Thanking Heavens my mother didn’t decide against using French at home, I kindly refused Miss Magne’s suggestion, as I liked my snails as much as my garden did… which is, not in the least. However lame I found my own joke (if you could even call it that), Charlotte seemed to be very amused by it. Moreover, my choice wasn’t just a result of my food preferences. I couldn’t afford anything on the menu, and even after Charlotte called the shots and, not without protests of my hurt pride, stood me the dinner, I decided it would be best to settle for just a simple black coffee, as we initially intended. 

„I sincerely hope I am not making your ears bleed too much with my horrible French, Alastor,” she professed at one point, „as you seem to have mastered the _langue de Molière._ Your accent is impeccable! Admit it, you are just a _Parisien_ in disguise.” 

„Oh no, I’m really not!” I chuckled. „I have never been to Europe, although I’d love to go one day, after the war ends. I hear it’s delightful and quite picturesque.” 

„It is, even if the atmosphere much depends on the part of the continent… quaint, French cafes leave a completely different impression on a person compared to the Alpes in their great, white glory. Though the mountains are safe, I hope the man-made sights can survive the horrors of war, so you indeed would be able to see them yourself.” 

I nodded, agreeing. While for us the Great War was something far away, feeling almost unreal, it wasn’t like so for the Europeans. So, sadly, Miss Magne’s apprehension had strong grounds in reality. „It seems you have traveled quite a bit around the Old Continent in the past,” I remarked, divulging from this depressing topic. 

„I did, a few years ago, but mostly around the German Empire,” Charlotte clarified. „I still think you must have a baguette hidden somewhere in your breast pocket, and you cannot convince me otherwise,” she then added with conviction. 

I snorted. „I assure you it’s not the case. I’m just a simple Creole man, and my mother decided to speak French at home, so it was only natural I picked it up.” 

„I should have guessed from your name and appearance, if you don’t mind me saying,” she rectified herself tactfully, “but somehow the lack of accent tricked me. How come you, take no offense, don’t _sound_ Creole?” 

„None taken,” I assured. „I managed to learn a different accent to hide my original one quite early on, to save myself from being constantly commanded to, well, _’speak White’_ at school. As bad and treacherous as it surely sounds, it is still of convenience to me. Although _d_ _ere are instances were I slip_ ,” I added, purposely letting my accent show through, even deepening it a bit, pathetically trying to somehow lighten up the atmosphere weighing down on us after I revealed that part of my background story. 

„I never imagined matters would be this bad,” she responded in a quiet voice, leaning a bit in my direction. 

„They are, but if I have to be fair, everything that has happened to me is nothing in comparison to what my brother had, and still has to, go through.” 

„You have a brother?!” Charlotte exclaimed, maybe a little bit too loud, with genuine surprise in her voice. 

„Yes. I mean, we aren’t blood-related, but we did grow up together, so I do consider him my closest family. Anthony’s from Sicily, and as a _filthy dago,_ ” I spitted, „he has it rough, especially in his field of work.” 

„I did hear the prejudice against Italians is growing in violence lately. The alleged ‚job stealing’ is such a ridiculous accusation. It is hardly their fault for being honest, hard-working people.” Charlotte declared with passion. „What is his occupation, if I might ask?” 

„He works at Storyville,” I carefully answered. 

She looked at me, clear confusion drawing upon her face. „I was not aware a musician’s job could be particularly perilous—” 

„He is not a musician.” 

„Oh.”

The uncomfortable silence ensued after this fast-tracked exchange of words. I could see Charlotte wriggling in the chair, tugging her shirt more firmly into place, and fixing her hair nervously. I did feel bad for cutting her off like so, but at the same time, couldn’t apologize, as I wasn’t sorry at all. The topic of Anthony’s job wasn’t a pleasant one, especially since I held a strong disdain towards myself for being ashamed of him, even though his job wasn’t exactly his choice. No — it wasn’t his choice _at all_ . It _never_ is. And that made my deep, hidden feelings even more hurtful.

„Anyone who does not fit the mold is being discriminated against in the so-called modern society, it would seem. I am deeply sorry for what your brother must be going through on an everyday basis. Although I cannot say I share his experiences, I do know how it feels to be constantly criticized for being different. Even when one did not necessarily have a say in what makes them stand out.” Charlotte stated after a while, with conviction, although her gaze remained lowered. „That is precisely why I do appreciate you supporting minorities’ movements. It is admirable, really, and is a quality I find one of the best in your broadcasts.”

„Thank you, Charlotte, for your kind words,” I accepted the praise humbly, internally beaming with joy. Yes, that little was needed to lift my spirits. But can you blame me? „Are you referring to any topics in particular?” I added, preparing to make a mental note of whatever she was going to answer. 

„The suffrage movements segment. I find it touching to hear a man encouraging our fight for a change, rather than belittle it. Because, as you yourself say, a change is coming, and coming soon; nothing is going to stop us until we are treated as equals.” 

„To be quite honest, I personally always found the fairer sex more valuable than men, in every way possible. It’s only right you should be able to participate in electing our officials. We know the world created by men. It would do us good to try a women’s one.” I agreed. „Although forgive me if I say, I can’t imagine you in a protest. They tend to get quite violent.”

Charlotte pierced me, once again, with her deep gaze. „Loverboy, believe me when I say, I am not as fragile as I might seem. I have gouged a fair amount of eyes in my life.” She laughed heartily. „But no, you are right. I have not been to a protest in a long while.”

„Why is that?” 

„Though I do support the suffrage sincerely, I would rather do it in other ways than brawling with the police. Demonstrations are more of my… darling friend’s interest. She is fierce and knows how to use her hairpins, let me tell you. For a few years now, she has been indisposed, and so cannot actively participate anymore. She does adore your auditions, though. Every time we listen to them together, my lacking in the vivid descriptions’ department gets teased immensely.” 

As elated as I felt to learn of another person tuning in to my auditions, I found it peculiar to never have been made aware of Charlotte’s friend’s existence before. Judging by her words, they seemed to be close, and during none of my many visits to Miss Magne’s mansion, I haven’t met any visitor, not to mention a possible housemate. The villa was huge, so there was a possibility of me simply not encountering her yet. Still, I hoped to meet the woman in question soon. After all, any friend of Charlotte must be at least as charming as her, right?

We continued to talk, and talk, and talk, until suddenly, hours passed, and the pianist who started to play his soft tunes just a mere moment ago was closing the lid of his instrument with a loud creak of the hinges, reverberating in the now-empty hall. The waiting staff was gathering the remaining plates and silverware, and glancing at us, surely praying to Heavens we would soon depart, too. And, although reluctantly, we did. 

As I lied in bed later, I found myself wishing for that day to never end, despite all the hardships and the unimaginable tiredness I felt. But, my heavy eyelids disagreed, and sooner than I might think, I fell into a deep slumber.

I cannot recall what exactly I dreamed that night. I know for a fact Charlotte was there, bright as ever, dancing around with a bouquet of marigolds, anemones, and monkshoods. A beautiful, dark-haired woman was sitting nearby on a stone, laughing with her. I wanted to join them, but as soon as I was spotted, everything froze, and the world around me turned into flames. I desperately looked around, trying to find them, but the only thing I heard among the loud sizzling and crackling, was one sentence, one plea, repeated over and over again. 

_„Please let me go, my darling.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hierophant is a card of piety and conservatism, relating to a person with an impressive authority, usually spiritual, but also for example the scientific one. Many associate it with the necessity to acquire one’s help. It also symbolizes the interest in spiritual matters, as well as craving for forgiveness._  
>    
>  Well, it was quite a heavy chapter topic-wise, wasn’t it? I hope all the dialogues didn’t tire, nor trigger you in any way. If they did, I apologize in advance.  
>    
>  Although it might not seem so, a lot went on. Mimzy has just entered the game. Her part in it, as well as her research, has just commenced — will she find anything of substance, I wonder?  
>    
>  Speaking of, I should add that while Café de L’Opera was very much a real place, I sadly wasn’t able to find any resources concerning it, so I let my creative juices flow both in regards to the atmosphere and interior. I did base the decor on an existing café, though — Café De La Paix in Paris! If you like architecture, I recommend checking it out. It is absolutely striking.  
>    
>  All in all, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Slowly, but surely, the story is getting into gear, and things are starting to creep just behind the corner… _*cackles evilly*_  
>    
>  **Footnotes**  
>  1 J. Bruce Ismay (1862-1937) was an English businessman who served as a chairman and managing director of the White Star Lines. He survived the sinking of the Titanic on April 15, 1912, having deserted the ship while women and children were still on board. In press, he became known as the „Coward of the Titanic” or „J. Brute Ismay”.


	4. Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warnings** : violence, catcalling, discrimination on the grounds of race and sexuality

Friday, June 23, 1916

Birds chirped delightfully, as I sat on the lawn in the Tulane University gardens, admiring the beautiful flower beds and listening to the buzzing of bees, hurrying to pollinate all the asters, bellflowers, and morning glories to the best of their abilities. Just like them, I have been incredibly busy for the last few weeks, so only now I have been able to meet with Mimzy to properly talk about her findings regarding my investigation. I was very curious to learn what she found out; two weeks prior, when I met with her last to pick up my notebook, she hinted to have made great progress. I can’t say the same about myself; I was as stuck as I could be, which was making me feel awful.

Thankfully, Miss Charlotte — and the thoughts of her — were there to make my days brighter. I couldn’t believe it was nearly three months since our first encounter in the forest. Now as I write it, I can see how short of a period of time it has been; not nearly enough to properly get to know someone. Nonetheless, back then, it felt as if I have known her for much longer. We’ve developed a friendship, often meeting for coffee in the city (thankfully in places less posh than the Café de L’Opera) or just running into each other while having other arrangements in town, which turned out to be smaller than one might expect.

Suddenly, the world got a little dimmer. Surprised, I looked up to check if the sun was alright or if I was perhaps to get surprised by a downpour; however, what I saw was just good old Mimzy, in a summer hat with a huge brim and a wicker basket, looking straight at me.

„Mimzy! Right on time as always!” I exclaimed, looking at my watch. It was just a few minutes past 1 o'clock.

„I’ve been here for a while now, calling your name till I nearly lost my voice,” she chided while sitting down, and I looked at her apologetically. „Lost in the daydream again?” She added, opening her basket and offering me a flatbread muffin, which I gladly accepted. I didn’t think we would end up having a picnic, but… show me a student who would refuse free food, _especially_ when the free food was as good as hers. Frankly, such a person should have their student license revoked, as they are the exact opposite of who a true university undergraduate is.

But, again, I’m derailing.

„You could say so. I’ve been out of sorts, and I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you as a friend lately,” I ate humble pie (while eating an _actual_ pie), looking at her remorsefully. Mimzy only swung her hand nonchalantly.

„It’s alright, don’t apologize. I know you have a lot on your mind, so I won’t waste your time any further.” She took some notes out of the basket and handed them over. „I promised results, and I’m here to deliver.”

„What have you found out?” I asked, shuffling the papers.

„To start with, the writings on the ring are, what an _absolute_ _surprise_ , **not** Hebrew, although you did have some intuition in your dumb humor.” She squinted at me jokingly, and I shrugged, pretending to not have the slightest idea what she was talking about. „The alphabet used is the one in which Enochian is inscribed. Before you ask, it’s a celestial language which appeared in the 16th century, after two English saps, John Dee and Edward Kelley, supposedly received visions in the crystal from the angels.”

„I am absolutely certain that’s what happened.” I sneered. „Was there a lot of alcohol involved?”

„Some of the visions they received while visiting the Polish-Lithuanian court, so I’d say yes,” Mimzy chuckled.

„Did you manage to decipher the engraving?”

„Yes. They seem to be some kind of names? The outside of the ring reads ‚Brimer, Suburith, Tranauit’, and the inside ‚Lyroth, Beryen, Damayn’. I suppose they belong to some demons, although records are clean about them. If my suspicions are true, it means they might be the ones summoned during an obscure ritual, known only to the selected few.”

„Maybe we can hypothesize their roles by their names solely? I know for a fact _‚brimer’_ is French for mistreating or bullying. Sounds quite demonic to me, although not very specific.”

„I thought so too, and I found out this verb’s etymology might be from a Proto-Indo-European word for digging. It consorts with ‚beryen’, which is Middle English for burying.”

„I’m sorry, Mimzy, it’s all very enlightening, and I already knew you were well-educated, but I don’t know where—”

„Burying in a _grave_ , Alastor.”

It took me a second to process what she said. If her analysis and surmises turned out to be correct, it would prove without a shadow of a doubt that my mother was a victim in a ritualistic sacrifice, and all the clues left behind weren’t some sort of diversion or sabotage. It made more sense than what was deemed in the investigation conducted nearly a decade ago.

I finally knew where I stood. My judgment was no longer clouded by previous suspicions, and I was on the right track. The culprit most likely wasn’t Creole, as what Mimzy explained doesn’t fit the knowledge I already had of voodoo rituals. Perhaps he was a satanist? Latin references and renaissance angelic language do sound more like the Devil’s worshippers' inclinations.

Nonetheless, it was progress, and a huge one at that. Without thinking much, I sprung up, lifting Mimzy from her seat and twirling her in the air, excited. After a short while, I put the dumbfounded flapper down. She was red in the face, flushed way more than she should be. _I_ was the one doing all the swirling and spinning, which was quite a feat, considering my meager frame and her curves. And yet, here she was, with a crimson, aglow face, and rapid blinking.

„I thought singers ought to have great stamina!” I laughed, wiping sweat trickling from my brows.

„I- I mean I g-guess we do?” Mimzy stumbled, smiling nervously. My sudden jolt of excitement must have confused her greatly, poor darling!

„Thank you for your help, Mimzy, you’re incredible! I don’t know what I have done to deserve such a wonderful best friend as you, but I’m sure as hell lucky,” I patted her on the back as she tried to regain her composure. Which, surprisingly, she did — and quite fast at that. After slapping her face a few times and fixing her bob, she was good as new.

„You deserve _everything_ , Al, and it’s not luck,” she answered with a slight smile, before adding „because frankly, you have a shit taste in people.”

„Hey, now! You’re fine, and Tony is too when he’s not too intoxicated. I’d say my taste is _impeccable_!”

„I’m talking about Miss Magne.”

Suddenly, the cheerful mood was gone. I grimaced, folding arms across my chest. „What about her?”

„I find her attitude unnerving. A proper lady such as the one she is making herself out to be should know better than just… hijack a conversation she wasn’t a part of. Without any greetings or even introducing herself, but straight-out _insulting_ one of the parties? That’s quite rude, I daresay.”

„Her behavior was quite natural in my books. We are well acquainted, after all. You do exactly the same thing, so I don’t think it’s right for you to judge Charlotte like that. She didn’t mean to be uncivil, it’s just the way she is. You tease me all the time yourself, too.”

„It’s because I have known you for _years_ , Alastor. I’m your _friend_ , as you said yourself. To her, I’m just a stranger, and it’s not right to be so presumptuous with a person you’ve just met. Especially if they are a friend of your friend? I felt horrible when she interrupted our conversation so blatantly, tossing me aside as if I was completely invisible, and later, when she so graciously decided to acknowledge my existence, insulting me constantly. I tried to act like I didn’t mind for your sake, but I did, Al. Her comments hurt me, you know they did. They would hurt you too if you were in my shoes. I felt reduced to an annoying fly, interrupting a lover’s meeting.”

„She’s not my lover, Mimzy!”

„But you wish she was.”

That was the point of no return, the pinnacle of my patience. I ran out of it completely and snapped, just like I did two months before with Husk. Needless to say, I would come to regret it, and soon; but back then, my pulse sped, rapidly pumping adrenaline into my veins. 

Heat rushed through my entire body, making my blood boil and face redden, not because of embarrassment, but rather of indignation at her boldness, if not brashness. It didn’t matter whether or not her statement was true; it was just not hers to make, and even if it was, I couldn’t stand the judgmental tone in her voice. She was out of her place. I thought we were over it. That _she_ was over it. And yet…

„Are you jealous, Mimzy?”

„What are you insinuating, I—”

„You _are_ jealous.” I approached her closer, shortening the distance between us. Mimzy backed off a few steps. „You are vilifying a girl you just met because of jealousy. You can’t stand not being the only woman in my life, and try to find excuses to rationalize it.”

„They are not excuses! And I’m not _vilifying_ anyone! Moreover, _the only woman in your life_? Don’t flatter yourself. I am perfectly content with being just your friend, nothing more, nothing less, and I don’t mind your other girlfriends, as long as they are not maddeningly churlish.”

„You’re afraid of competition, aren’t you?”

„ _Competition?_ ” Mimzy scoffed. „I am not competing against anyone, what would be the reason? As if you were some casanova to make girls fall at your feet.”

 _‚I did make you fall, though,’_ I thought to myself, but not with pride that would usually follow such words.

Mimzy’s infatuation had been an open secret for months, and for the longest time I was probably the only one oblivious to it. I didn’t know the reason and to be honest I still don't understand _why_ she has lost her head over me. Why _anybody_ would. Just as she said, I’m not a casanova, or a strong, confident, lone wolf kind of man women tend to desire. And yet, I was the one this beautiful, popular girl, getting myriads of flowers from her adoring admirers every night, succumbed to the questionable charms of. I was the one who rejected her when she confessed. Frankly, I don’t know the reason for my actions. I just never saw her as a woman, but more as a sister? It’s hard to say. What’s for sure, my life would be much different if I just decided to try back then, rather than promise to act as if nothing happened. If Mimzy didn’t comply with being nothing more than a loyal friend.

How different would everything be.

„When we are at it, Miss Magne isn’t even your peer,” Mimzy added.

„Is that a problem?”

„I never thought you’d be interested in a woman a _decade_ older than yourself—”

„Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you might think, Miriam.”

Mimzy was hurt, visibly. She looked at me with a pained expression and eyes wide open, filling with tears, even though she surely must have been trying to strangle their flow. Her whole body was trembling. She took a few breaths, pressing a fist on her chest, collecting herself; or at least, as much as she was able to.

„I would seem so,” she agreed with a voice devoid of any emotion. „But I still care deeply about you and don’t want to see you get hurt. And the way Miss Magne looks at you, talks with you… she’s not treating you like an equal, she’s a dexterous huntress who has found herself a helpless prey.”

Somehow, I didn’t notice the state she was in. Or rather, I noticed it but paid it no mind. My judgment was clouded by anger, and hearing myself be reduced to a softy once again irked me further. „And you know all that after hearing _one_ conversation? Do you even _hear_ yourself?”

„And do _you_? Is Alastor Laurent a man who gets so worked up about some skirt to lash out like that on someone who has simply voiced their concern? Someone who he himself has called a close friend just a few minutes ago?”

„Perhaps I was mistaken, and that someone is not my friend at all.”

I glanced at her with contempt and turned on my heels. Before she could utter a word, I was gone, without looking back at her quivering statue, doing her utmost to collect the shattered pieces of a faithful heart.

I didn’t know where I was headed; I just wanted to get as far away from the campus, from _her_ , as possible. Until out of the blue, I thought of a perfect destination, of the one thing that could help me in this situation.

I needed a drink.

══════════════════

Walking down Basin Street, avoiding the drunkards and prostitutes to the best of my abilities, I searched for a perfect place to drown my sorrows at and, quite possibly, get drunk as a skunk. After all the overload of work, the stress, and the argument with Mimzy, God knows I craved it. I missed sitting in a bar, enjoying the finer aspects of life, the bitter taste of alcohol being my greatest worry, at least for the moment, at least for the night. The soft tunes of live music thrumming in the background here to comfort my tired mind. The familiar scent of smoke and cigarettes, filling my nostrils. The stars, shining down on Crescent City, always so strikingly bright, never minding the sorrows and everyday struggles of human lives.

All those things were the essence of New Orleans and the very reason I loved this city so dearly. Once the velvety veil of dusk has covered the world, one could just forget their daily self, and delight in everything the night had to offer.

Finding the right establishment, in the end, has proven to be quite a feat. I couldn’t go to my usual spot, The Palace, in fear of running into Mimzy, who was the main star of the venue. As a rule, I never entered dens of sin like Tom Anderson’s Saloon1, either — and that limited my options greatly, seeing I was in Storyville. Sauntering down the street, I finally came across a club just like I wanted: a quaint little place, buzzing with life and shaking in laughter, but not loud enough to stifle the buoyant rhythm of ragtime being vigorously banged away on a raddled piano.

„Gin, please. No, no tonic. I’d like it neat,” I requested, sitting on the barstool. The barman nodded his head understandably and poured me two cocktail glasses of the fine berry liquor. After immediately bolting down one of them, not without grimacing terribly, I reached for the other; but before I could grab it, I was stopped in my tracks.

„Jesus, kid. You look like shit,” Husk professed, chugging down _my_ glass of gin with a straight face. I was convinced his throat must be nothing more than a burned wasteland, with taste buds devoid of any ability to distinguish flavors or even the memory of such a skill.

 _‚No shit Sherlock,’_ I thought to myself but decided against saying that out loud. Insulting him right off the bat wasn’t the brightest idea. Moreover, I was down in the dumps already, having messed things up with Mimzy, worrying about possibly losing a dear friend of mine because of a stupid short temper, with which I was cursed.

I wouldn’t be myself, though, if I wasn’t at least a bit sarcastic.

„Why thank you, _Detective_ , for that meticulously detailed analysis of my state. Wouldn’t have noticed otherwise,” I retorted, waving at the barman for more drinks. Seeing where I was going tonight, he just gave me a whole bottle. I, in return, made a mental note to give him a hefty tip when I would have to get going. Unless I would be too out of it to do so, of course.

„Told ya the shoes of a private eye might be too big for you to fill,” he remarked without looking at me.

„Actually, the investigation is going great!”

„Really?” He turned into my direction rapidly, spilling a bit of beer, which had just been poured to him. „Do you have any suspects?”

„Well, no. Not yet, anyway. But! It’s still going better than it has been for you!” I blew my chest up like a rooster. „I just made a breakthrough! You were wrong drafting the culprit’s profile. They aren’t practitioners of Voodoo or any other local magic, but rather are connected to a Satanic cult.”

„Good for you, kid, I applaud the enthusiasm, though it’s a bold claim to make. It’s tempting to deem all strange symbols Satanic, but it’s not always straight-forward.”

„Yes, but I deciphered them!” Husk cocked his head slightly. „Alright, not _me_ per se, but—”

Easy as that, the very reason _why_ I came there to drink in the first place came back to me, and abruptly, my pride was gone, and my whole body deflated. I knew the breakthrough I made wouldn’t be possible without Mimzy. We ought to be there together, celebrating. But no, I _had_ to behave like an ass, surely making my late mother, bless her soul, _very_ proud. Not surprisingly, I didn’t feel like boasting to Husk anymore; however, in for a dime, in for a dollar, and so I reached down to my bag for the notebook, to show him the fruit of our research. I grabbled inside helplessly, increasingly more panicked, until I realized my dramatic exit prevented me from taking it back from…

„—Mimzy…” I sighed heavily, taking a big sip of the bitter drink.

The detective cleared his throat and hesitantly patted me on the back a few times. I tensed, but didn’t brush him off, knowing the genuine intentions behind the gesture. The territory we were slowly, but surely entering clearly wasn’t his forte — but we both knew what was. Before I knew it, the bottle of gin was gone, and bourbon took its place. „We both know you hate that shit, so no need for playing a virile man any longer,” and after a short pause and a resigned sigh, he added, “girl problems?”

It was endearing to see the old hand Joe Husk go out of his way for me, I do admit. I was thankful for that, too. After all, it is said bottling up one’s emotions is dire in results for their mental health. And obviously, I wasn’t doing good as it were.

„I… got into a huge fight with her today, and I hurt her. A lot. Frankly, should she decide to not have anything to do with me any further, I would congratulate her on making the right choice.”

„Are we talkin’ bout Mimzy Hannigan? The girl would follow you into the fire if need be. I say you’d have to be one hell of a sick asshole to make her even _consider_ abandoning you.”

„I called her out, ridiculed her feelings, and told her I don’t see her even as a friend, and she doesn’t know a thing about me. So, you could say, I was one hell of a sick asshole,” I stated matter-of-factly, tossing down half a glass of bourbon.

„Son, you are a _miserable_ asshole,” he joined me in silently imbibing our respectful drinks. I suppose Detective was trying to give me space to vent further. „I know _we_ can disagree, but lash out like that on a _girl_? What the hell has gotten into you?” he added once it became clear I wouldn’t say a word unless asked.

Well then. Might as well.

„It was because of another girl.”

My cheeks burned crimson, and Husk’s mouth fell open; he then ran a hand down his face, rubbing it somewhat.

„Fuck me, kid.”

„He won’t, but I just might, handsome,” I heard a familiar voice behind my back, and without fail, I saw Tony’s face, winking suggestively at my drinking companion. „Was it a _girl problem_ you were both talkin’ before I joined?”

As I mentioned in one of my previous entries, Anthony, currently going by Angel Dust in the Blue Books2, was my brother, although we weren’t related by blood. We met at the Protestant Orphans’ Home, where I stayed after my mother’s death. Both of us were outcasts back there: me, a mute boy, and him, an albino with mismatched eyes. His peculiar appearance, which caused him a lot of pain in life, happened to be advantageous in his latest line of work, as he stood out in the crowd of numerous prostitutes of New Orleans, at least according to his own words.

„Anthony? What are you doing here?”

„I told ya, it’s ‚Angel’, and I should be the one asking this question. Haven’t seen your mug in town for weeks now!” He exclaimed, forcing his place between me and Husk, where he sat comfortably.

„I’ve been… preoccupied. With work. And such.”

„Working on a _lady_ , hm, dear brother? If you know what I mean?” He wiggled his eyebrows lewdly, and I felt a strong urge to show him some _brotherly love_ by slapping his face. With a chair. A metal one, preferably. But being, well, me, I did nothing more than just blush furiously.

„I— no! I mean, yes, kind of— no, I mean **_no_**!”

„What’s ‚no’’s name?” Angel moved uncomfortably close to me, leaning his chin on two hands. I felt both his pinkish and deep brown eyes drilling my face, looking for every single slight muscle twitch. Unlike me, he was having the time of his night. Obviously, at my expense.

I didn’t have much choice but to give way. Also, I am prone to being painfully sincere when in an intoxicated state, and at that point, I have started feeling the results of drinking without restraints with an old alcoholic.

„Charlotte. I met her a few weeks ago while I was hunting in the Bayou.”

„Mmm, and she shot an arrow through your heart straight away?”

„No, _I_ shot through her leg with a bullet,” I answered earnestly.

„Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, son, you have to work on your flirting techniques,” Husk bursted out laughing, nearly spilling his pint.

Anthony, too, couldn’t hold back his guffaw. „Was it to prevent her from running away from you as all the others did?”

„I’m not _that_ obnoxious!” I exclaimed, rather loudly, causing some strangers to look curiously in our direction.

„First thing you did upon laying your eyes on this girl was handicapping her. If I were in her shoes, I would make a run for it with my one remaining leg as fast as possible.”

„That’s— fair.” I paused for a second, tapping a finger on my lips. „I suppose I should also clarify this… girl is older than me.”

„How much older?” Both men looked at me curiously.

„…ten years or so?” I answered with a waver in my voice.

Husk whistled, chortling. I must say I haven’t seen him _that_ amused in… well, never, and I still don’t know how to feel about it. Tony, on the other hand, made a thumbs-up gesture, simultaneously nodding with a smug expression on his face, a mixture of both surprise and approval.

„Can’t say I blame you, Al. I couldn’t; I like DILFs after all.”

„What did you just say?” Husk looked at Angel in confusion.

„Wouldn’t you like to know,” he answered, ogling the Detective, which I ignored. Because, frankly, I had no clue what he was talking about either, and knowing my dear brother, I would rather stay in the dark.

In a trice, I looked at the ceiling and violently slammed a glass of bourbon on the table. „I don’t know what to do! I don’t know who I am anymore, I don’t recognize myself!”

„Brother, that’s _good_! Because, take no offense, _especially_ when it comes to women, you should just _not_ be yourself! But, fear not, the best hooker in all of Crescent City is here to offer you some free advice!” Angel wrapped his long arm around my shoulders, putting an end to my wailing. I freezed under the sudden touch, but, as always, he gave it no mind. He then clapped his hands enthusiastically, making my ears ring terribly. I covered them, in a futile attempt to save myself from pain.

Didn’t work.

„ _Numero uno!_ Talk… less. Smile… more! Skirts _love_ dark, mysterious, smug men who are _also_ charismatic and approachable. Don’t run around like a lost puppy, be a _challenge!_ But not _too much_ of a challenge, so she won’t get bored and discouraged!”

„Dat sounds self-contradictory,” I stated matter-of-factly, my Creole accent starting to show.

„If it were easy, every man could have a girl like Evelyn Nesbit. But women her type, and from what I’ve heard, Miss Charlotte does fall into the category, have a strong preference for men who are the _opposite_ of the walking stereotype of an engineering student.”

I must say, he did have a point. Usually, alluring, strong, independent women chose robust and fine men, of which I was neither. And, however perfect such pairs don’t sound, one cannot help but recall the fate of captivating Evelyn Nesbit’s lovers. The first one was killed by her husband, who then was deemed a madman and confined in an asylum. It seems her relationship with her second husband is not berries, either.

No wonder I found myself praying to Heavens for Charlotte being _nothing_ like Evelyn Nesbit, despite having at least some of her qualities.

„However! There are some tricks to help wishy-washy toy boys like you. For example, one of my favorites, absolutely foolproof. Just… come close to her, like so,” he leaned just mere inches away from my face and, with drooping eyelids, gently moved my chin up with his thumb, „and make use of those deep, deep eyes of yours and beguiling, mellow voice…”

„ _Mes… quoi ?_ ” I boggled, confused, trying to wrap my mind around the point he was trying to get through. Was he talking about _me_ , or was it another one of his weird metaphors, if one could even call them that? Out of all adjectives I could use to describe myself, or _any_ part of myself for that matter, ‘beguiling’ and ‘mellow’ would surely not make the list. As the stench of alcohol (among other things of varied origin) from Angel reached my nostrils, I wrinkled my nose and reflexively jerked my head backward, hitting him in the process, much to Husk’s amusement. I gave the Detective a pleading look, begging him for some help and rescue.

„Don’t look at me like that, son. I, with the great dating knowledge of none, cannot offer you any successful advice. Nor rescue you from your batshit crazy hooker brother,” he shrugged and took a sip, before adding nonchalantly, “especially since he does have a point.”

I flinched and gawked at both of them with the expression of utter betrayal. Tony smiled smugly, shrugging his shoulders.

 _„_ _Je ne vois pas où vous voulez en venir 3_ _!”_ I lamented, throwing my hands up.

„Don’t ya worry, dear brother, you’ll know soon enough… watch the master do his magic.”

The rest of… _that_ part of the evening, I’m ashamed to admit, is a blur. To my utter disgust, all the bits and pieces I can remember is Anthony trying his _foolproof techniques_ on one no other than Husk, with various levels of success. The sheer fact some of his attempts seemed to have been, indeed, victorious, baffles me preposterously. I know it did back then, too. I may or may not have shot a cat or two in the meantime, and I am _not_ talking about actual, innocent felines. 

Soon enough, I found myself walking down New Orleans alleyways with Anthony, the cold, late-night breeze bringing me back to my senses. I suppose my companions must have rightly decided it was enough for me, and the rock bottom has already been hit. Seeing I would normally stroll downtown admiring the stars in their dazzling beauty, and then every single turn of my head in the upwards direction was making me nauseous, it had been a good call. However significantly more sober I was becoming by the minute, the world was still spinning, and every single step was a tripping hazard. Glad to have Tony by my side, I willingly accepted his offer to walk with joined arms, so the feat of getting home would be a bit more manageable.

„Jesus, watch where you’re going. I bought these at D. H. Holmes!” Angel exclaimed, pointing rapidly at his now dirty shoes with his one free hand. „Fuck, I should have just left you there to suffocate with your vomit.”

„You _wouldn’t!_ ”

„Yes, I would. Watch the cobblestone.”

Obediently, I plastered my gaze down, carefully assessing each and every step I took on the uneven surface. We moved forward like so, in complete silence. It was pleasant, that tranquility of night way past the witching hour; quite a change from the usual buzz of the city. The quiet sound of steps had a calming effect on both of us; and given what he had to go through every single day, he probably needed it, too. Honestly, I should be the one taking care of _him_ , not the other way around. I was the older one, after all. And yet still…

„Thank you, Tony.”

„That’s what brothers are for, you drunk.”

„I’m _not_ a drunk!”

„Yes, you _just have your moments._ _Please_ try not to destroy my apartment.”

Without any protests, I accepted his invitation; getting to the Bayou at that hour in the state I was in would be next to impossible. We both just wanted to hit the hay as soon as possible, and Angel’s wooden, creaking floor was not as uncomfortable as it sounded. Believe me, I was no stranger to it. After all, for years, we were both roommates, so penniless we couldn’t even afford two beds. And, knowing what sinful acts took place on Angel’s mattress every other night, I would not dare to even set foot in the bedroom. I grinned, remembering these simpler times.

Just as we were reaching the French Quarter (which honestly at that point should be renamed to Italian Quarter), the delightful ataraxy was breached by loud wolf-whistles and catcalling behind our backs. We tried to give the words spat out by rather crude gentlemen no mind, but soon it became impossible.

My dear mother taught me to respect everyone, and the hardships I had to go through after she was gone, made me despise bullies with a burning passion. However, I was well aware of my limp stature, and in usual circumstances, I would do the reasonable thing, which is biting my tongue like a coward. That time, however, the alcohol filling my veins made me exceptionally confident; and Angel knew that fully well, seeing how he constantly pulled my sleeve, encouraging me to just walk further. And I ignored him, for better or for worse.

„Why do you feel compelled to yell vile things at people you don’t know?”

„We are just admiring your little freak minx’s clung, is it so bad of us?” The sleaziest of them moved from his place into our direction, arms spread helplessly, pretending to be oblivious to the cause of my irritation.

„Alastor, don’t,” Angel tightened his grip on my arm.

„Oh, so your whore is a man. A _male_ freak. Excuse the mistake then, faggots.”

„Take that back,” I declared firmly as I yanked my arm, pulling away from Angel.

„What did you just say to me, skank?”

„I said,” I repeated, without even the slightest waver in my voice, „you should take that back. I don’t know what gives you the right to pick up on us, but I encourage you to stop, right now.”

„And I say,” he hawked, grabbing me by the collar, „you filthy foolhardy _coonass_ should know your place, and either accept it or go the fuck back where you came from.”

„I came from _here_. As did my mother, and the ones before her.”

„And you think that means something? Ha! Your mother was nothing more than a breeding bitch for us folks to use, like the rest of you paper bag vermins.”

From here on, things escalated fast. The man wiped a wad of my spittle off his face, burning red with anger. The material of my collar was ripped apart with a soft rasp, but before I could rejoice for having feet on the ground once again, I felt my veins throb as he grabbed me by the neck tightly. Every single breath was a struggle, and as tears involuntarily filled my eyes I thought nothing could be more painful than the desperate attempts to swallow saliva as his clasp strengthened. Soon enough, the cold, hard surface of the pavement proved me wrong. The impact broke my glasses, the shards mercilessly lacerating my face. My vision went black for a second, and I wriggled helplessly, frantically trying to push the opponents away. Just for a second. Just for enough to breathe in. Just so I could _process_ the crackling sound of broken bones filling the air, every single inch of my body being kicked, stepped on, _mauled_.

And strangely enough, I did. With all my strength, impetuously, I pushed; and the second it got me was the one necessary to catch my breath and clumsily get back on my knees. I pulled up, violently shoving one of the thugs onto the pavement, his head thudding sickeningly. I tasted something metallic on my lips.

Blood.

Wiping it off with the sleeve of my shirt, I stood up, struggling to stand straight. My vision was clouded and I couldn’t get a clear view of the situation; I wasn’t even sure how many attackers were there. Two? Three? I had no clue. Multiple ones, that’s for goddamn sure.

A sharp shrill cut the air, and I hissed, feeling the warm, sticky liquid not only in my mouth, but on my cheek as well. The cut wasn’t deep — it was a warning. Not a fair one, though; I should have known men like them like to play dirty. I should have known better than to get into a street brawl, which with every passing second was becoming more and more lethal.

The realization was probably the only thing keeping me alive. I was going on sheer adrenaline, the anger, burning deep within me. The accumulated pain, the visible one, and the one devouring me from the inside. The rush of alcohol. Physically, I was on the verge; my stamina wearing out, strength getting thin, and no amount of desperate gasping could fill my lungs with a sufficient amount of air. No clinging to my beat-up chest could ease the throbbing pain of the smashed ribcage. 

The battle was lost even before it began.

I should have listened to Tony.

Blindly, I swaggered, punching the air, hoping one of the blows would land anywhere on my opponents. It was a dumb, feeble desire; a childish one, even. As I writhed, a strong grip held me in place, and silver once again shone in the moonlight reflected on the metal freckled with red. The pain shot through my body; a precise, excruciating sensation of a blade piercing the flesh between my ribs, and then once more, through my abdomen. The tiny specs of scarlett disappeared in the sea of crimson, reaching all the way to the knife’s handle. With a blank surprise, I retched blood, looking around with an empty gaze, but not seeing anything. Between the rhythmic, faint sound of red dripping off the shiv, hitting the pavement and onto the pool of gore forming, I heard my brother scream.

And then the world turned to nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Strength card, in its upright position, represents regularity and care for one’s physical wellbeing. Reversed, however, is associated with a brutal struggle, or even sadism._  
>    
>  So… quite an eventful chapter, huh?  
>  Yep.  
>  ~~sorry not sorry 8D~~ _*frumpy: OUT*_  
>    
>  **Footnotes**  
>  1 Tom Anderson’s Saloon - a flagship establishment of Storyville, run by the unofficial „Mayor of Storyville”, the rich and powerful businessman Tom Anderson. A house adjoining the restaurant was the Arlington Annex, run by the famous madam Josie Arlington.  
>  2 Blue Books - directories of prostitutes and brothels of Storyville, published between 1898~1915, although they have been used until Storyville closed in 1917, and if I were to assume, probably even a bit longer than that. Basically yellow pages for sexy times, which could be purchased for as little as $0.25 (about $6.40 in today’s money).  
>  3 _Je ne vois pas où vous voulez en venir !_ \- fr. I don’t know what you mean!  
>    
>  And oh, by the way! If you wanted to follow me on twitter, I’m [@frumpy_furby](https://twitter.com/frumpy_furby). I post updates there, and some more fun stuff!


	5. The Sun

_The boy sat quietly in his usual spot under the staircase, hidden from the outside world. He was one of the odd ducks among the kids living in the Protestant Orphans’ Home. A good and obedient child, this one was; always calm, never causing a scene, or throwing a fit. At the very beginning, his unusual calmness was a cause of concern for the caretakers; after all, the traumatized kids were prone to waking up at night, crying and wailing, in denial of what has happened to their family. The boy, however, was different. Except for his apparent muteness, he didn’t seem to show signs signifying symptoms of psychological distress. All he ever needed was being left alone, under the staircase, some pieces of paper and a pencil in his tiny hands._

_No one has ever seen the contents of his sketchbook. There have been attempts, of course — especially in the beginning, just after he got to the respected establishment on the corner of Constance and Seventh. Multiple serious and scary men dressed in navy uniforms had tried to take a hold of his precious book, but to no avail. These situations, you see, were the only instances upon which the boy would get violent. Biting and scratching, he wouldn’t let anyone review his sketches; once, he even went as far as to pull his precious item out of a policeman’s grip and throw it into the fireplace. It was concerning, yes, especially considering the delicacy of the case, the lack of evidence, and gruesome details of what was known. Despite it all, the investigation wasn’t one of those high-profile cases, giving the officers restless nights. So, they decided against struggling with the boy. He had suffered enough._

_What they didn’t know is that the lad wouldn’t be able to help them, anyway. He didn’t remember the night of interest to them, and even some happenings hitherto. In a form of a defense mechanism, his mind went blank, like a_ tabula rasa _. Some particular images were haunting his mind: the fire, the blood, the strange symbols. He drew them all, hoping putting the scary thoughts on paper would make him forget._

_How futile it was._

_The one thing he wanted to remember, though, seemed to escape him, troubling him deeply, and making his tiny heart suffer immensely. He couldn’t remember his mother’s face. No matter how many times he tried, how hard he reminisced, he couldn’t recall it. And so, every page of his sketchbook was filled with abstract, macabre scribbles and portraits of a woman without a face._

_All his days were merging into one in his mind. Every day, he would come here, under the stairs. Every day, other kids, bigger and stronger than him, would come and bully him. They would mock his frail stature, his passiveness, and his silence. He wouldn’t react. What could he do? The only thing that would result from fighting back was more suffering. He wasn’t a hero. He just wanted to survive._

_So, every single day, he took the beating gladly. After some weeks, he would quiver each time someone would try to lay a hand on him, even in the sincerest of intents. He was broken and lost in the overwhelming quietude, and so, so hungry. Not that the caregivers malnourished the kids, not at all; there was plenty of food, but hectors took advantage of his acquiesce and muteness, stealing from him. He got used to it, too. What other choice did he have?_

_Then one day, everything changed. As he lay there on the wooden floor, tears flowing down his face as the bullies pulled his hair and tore his sketchbook to shreds, he heard someone yell from behind. The kids shrieked, seeing the person in question. Although younger than the boy, he was exceptionally tall, and his peculiar appearance made him feared; there was a rumor spreading of a curse so great even his own family rejected him, placing him in the orphanage to rot. The boy, however, didn’t fear the uncanny stranger._

_The only thing he saw in his mismatched eyes was kindness._

_„Are you alright? Those fucking pussies don’t know any better than to pick up on the weaker.” He extended his hand in the boy’s direction, who hesitantly took what the albino kid was giving him. It was a round, red apple._

_„I’m Tony, by the way. Do you wanna be friends?” He asked, and the boy nodded vigorously in response, ravishing the gifted fruit. The albino smiled. „What’s your name?”_

_„Alastor,” the boy answered in a quivering whisper._

══════════════════

Sunday, June 25, 1916

„Alastor?”

I don't remember what happened after I fainted with the knife pushed deep between my ribs; perhaps the _oh so very kind_ gentlemen got scared they might have to face charges of murder for hitting off a worthless _coonass_ like yours truly? Whatever happened, it allowed Anthony to drag me to Charity, to which I owe my life. I was slipping in and out of consciousness; my memories are fuzzy, but I do recall a few sensations. The pain. The harsh hospital lights.

The soft, female voice calling out my name.

"Don't you _dare_ die on me, Alastor. Not yet _._ "

From what I've heard later, I lost a lot of blood, and for a long time, was as good as a goner. Like many times before in my life, I got lucky; the stab wounds were severe, the blade missing my heart by mere inches, but, thankfully, no vital organs were damaged. I also got help just in time, and the physician on call that day was exceptionally skillful. The worst was averted swiftly, and the rest, including the broken ribs and blunt trauma, was a matter of rehabilitation. Some things, however, left a long term effect; I never thought, being just a bit over twenty, I would experience weather pains like an old man. But, given the circumstances, I don’t complain. Not _that_ much, anyway.

„Alastor!”

I opened my eyes slowly and saw the familiar silhouette of Anthony looking right up at me from above. I groaned; his tenor pierced my ears, worsening the throbbing headache. Before my vision could adjust to the brightness of the room, it was obstructed by Tony’s frame closing me in a bear hug. After eight years of knowing each other, I was _nearly_ used to his cuddle bug ways and no respect for any of my personal space whatsoever. My newly healed wounds though most certainly _weren’t._

„Anthony, please, don’t squish me—”

„I was **worried**!” He whined, hugging me even tighter. „You were out for **thirty hours**! I was afraid you might not ever wake up, you fuckwit!”

 _„_ Anthony, I might _die_ if—”

„Yes, you nearly died! Why can’t you just pay no attention to sleazy racists and bullies like everyone else, _especially_ when we both know you are more of a punching bag than a boxer—”

„Anthony, if you don’t stop **my wounds will open and I will bleed to death**.”

As on cue, he sprang off. I breathed deeper, cherishing the ease with which the air entered my lungs now that life wasn’t getting squeezed out of me by my affectionate brother.

The sensation of waking up in a completely alien place was weird to say the least. I looked around the empty walls and humble furnishing of the hospital room; it was tiny, a cubbyhole indeed — I would even call it a hutch, if not for one small, although important, detail. This room was meant for one person only; and with how overcrowded and understaffed Charity was, not many people had the pleasure to be stationed in such. I furrowed my brows, wondering to what did I owe these comforts. Then, a rather lovely bouquet of sunflowers, eglantines and sages, caught my eye. A warm charm surrounded it, a reminder of a summer afternoon and a smiling lady in a huge, brimmed hat and a wicker basket loaded with the most delicious pastries.

„Where did you get those flowers?”

„I got them after one of my performances. Beautiful, aren’t they? The turnover great Mr. Eble1 has because of me…”

I rolled my eyes. „Thank you, Tony, but I’d rather _not_ hear about your strip-tease performances nor other activities you do at work, thank you very much.” 

‚Mimzy would like something like that’, I thought to myself, glancing at the bouquet. I was adamant about setting things straight with her as soon as I could stand up and actually _walk_ to see her; it was impossible back then, but I trusted in my good genes and fairly fast healing rate. I feel awful to admit, but my guilt-ridden conscience wasn’t the only reason for my wanting to make up with her as soon as possible. She still had my notebook. I _needed_ my notebook. Gathering, and coping, and researching all the information I already found would take ages, and I feared she might not return it otherwise. I honestly have no idea why I doubted her so — but I did. I guess I am the worst when it comes to judging people and their character.

„That’s a pity. But I guess, hearing about a cake is one thing while seeing or _eating it_ is another.” He winked, which I pretended to ignore. „Why you ask, though? Wanna give a bouquet to Doctor Sexy as a thank you for saving your life? Because honestly, that’s boring as shit and you should come up with something better.”

„Doctor… Who?” I shook my head. „Never-mind. Christ, my wallet hurts at the thought, but I guess you are right and I should show my gratitude in some way. Flowers for a man aren’t that suitable, though. Some good whisky, perhaps?”

„A man? Last time I checked, Doctor Sexy had boobs. Quite a nice pair if you ask me, but I couldn’t be sure. A well-constructed corset can make a fool even of the best connoisseur.”

A _female_ doctor? A _surgeon_? To say I was surprised, would be an understatement. Of course, I knew about the existence of such stereotype-breaking ladies, like, I don’t know, Elizabeth Blackwell2 or Mary Edwards Walker3 and their followers, but I didn’t think I would meet one _here_ , in Louisiana. Nor that I would be a _patient_ of one, at no other than Charity Hospital. This information struck my curiosity and journalist knack. Why haven’t I heard of her before? I’m not much into medical news, but such a well-educated, going against the tide lady was giving out strong suffrage vibes, and as you probably noticed, I was (and still am!) _all_ for them. ‘Maybe almost getting killed wasn’t such a bad thing,’ I thought, ‘if I can meet such an interesting persona.’

„I was dubious when you told us about the lady of your heart, Alastor, but now I must say I do approve of your tastes. I like her dominant allure. I mean, I am used to being ogled and undressed with eyes of all sexes and genders, but I felt that woman literally _taking me apart_ with her gaze. Like a piece of meat. She must be into some pretty kinky shit, I tell ya,” he added with the confidence of a specialist.

„I…. don’t quite follow?”

Before Anthony could enlighten me, the door opened and I saw her. Her attire was so different from her usual one, to the point I nearly failed to recognize her. Delicate features and dainty frame of hers contrasted greatly with the manly clothes — a plain, high-collared shirt with a black bowtie and brown tweed pants, all covered behind a white lab coat, a staple of a physician. Her blonde locks neatly gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head, not even one fly-away escaping the tie. The demure, lady-like look she usually sported was gone, her professional wardrobe emanating a different kind of energy — that of a strong, independent woman. I liked it, and she seemed to feel comfortable in it, too. After all, it was in line with her character way more than pastels and frills so ever-present in feminine fashion.

„Charlotte? What are you doing here?”

„As of late, bringing you back from the brink of death. Mr. Rossi, if you would be so kind as to leave me alone with the patient?”

Tony smirked and nudged at me knowingly before leaving the room. I could already _feel_ the tease he would unleash upon me later. Oh, _God._

„Now that you are finally conscious,” she continued, „I can fill you in on your condition and state. Do not worry, I won’t go too much into gruesome detail. We both are fully aware of how you are with those.” Charlotte smiled smugly and I flinched as we simultaneously remembered the failed medical procedure I was to perform on her that fateful day in the Bayou. „It is truly a miracle you did not suffer a severe concussion, given how many blows on the head you have received. Your fifth and sixth ribs were fractured, but a flail chest was averted. The most severe of your injuries were the ones to your heart area and abdomen, the first one being a sucking chest wound. I managed to drain the fluids from the area and close it with stitches, but you must remember to avoid any straining activities for the next few months, although you should be recovered in two weeks or so.”

„ **Two weeks?!”** I exclaimed, before correcting myself. „Thank you, Miss- Doctor Magne. I owe you my life.”

„It’s quite alright. This is my profession, after all. Although I must say you have been incredibly fortunate to come across me on duty, of all the physicians at Charity. Most of the morons working here would have sent you straight to meet with our Creator, so you could shake hands with St. Peter.” Her lips curled and she shook her head frustratingly. „And I _can_ let you out of there faster if you heal properly, but do not expect it to be less than a week. I would rather not have to stitch your wounds again, so try _not_ to re-open them.”

„Don’t let Anthony in, then.” I chuckled. „He is the biggest risk of it happening, currently.”

„Your… _brother_ definitely is… _something else_.” Charlotte weighed her words carefully, and plucked her lips in disgust. It seemed she didn’t take a liking to Tony, and in all honesty, I can’t blame her. Even for me he _still_ isn’t the easiest fellow to get by with, and back then his attitude was nearly narcissistic. Alright, _fully_ narcissistic. All the issues hidden behind a veil of fake self-confidence irritated the hell out of me, too.

„I know, I know. I assure you, behind his crudeness and vulgarity there is a kind heart, and I treasure him a lot.” I paused. „But don’t relay this to him. I much rather mock him than give him a reason to tease _me._ ”

She giggled. „With all due respect, Alastor, but I think he has enough grounds to do it already.”

„Charlotte, you hurt my feelings!” I exclaimed jokingly. She _did_ hurt them, though. A little bit. „Coming back on track, however, I am very much obliged to you, and I would like to somehow thank you for all you did for me. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting? After you let me out of this cubby, that is.”

She put her finger up, before slouching to cough. I was no doctor, but it sounded rather bad, making me concerned for her well-being. Which, I admit, was quite ridiculous, seeing _I_ was the one admitted to the hospital.

„I would be honored, but I cannot dare to accept such an offer. I am quite content with being a non-dirty physician, thank you very much.” I reacted with the saddest expression I could. „But, I would love to go somewhere with you without any particular occasion. Once I let you out of this _most comfortable room in all of Charity_ , that is.”

I smirked, noticing her comment. As soon as I learned of the identity of my savior, the mystery of my surprisingly well-off lodging was solved. Thinking she went as far as to request such a quarter for my humble persona was endearing and heartwarming. Gestures like this one made me suppose she _cared_ , and hope it might be to at least a similar extent to the way I did for her. That somehow, by some impossible miracle, I was as important to her as she was to me.

And for me, she was the one.

Feeling elevated after hearing her answer, I closed my eyes, and blissfully let myself succumb to slumber. Even the radio silence, which had to occur at my station for a while, didn’t worry me that much anymore; nor the possibility of my neighbors (if you can call them so) possibly being the ones hiring the thugs to grant themselves some nights of peace and quiet, free from my annoying voice and over-the-top attitude. I had things to dream and look forward to.

══════════════════

Saturday, July 8, 1916

In the end, I turned out to be a not-so-fast-healing patient as I thought myself to be. Two weeks have passed — and finally, I was discharged. Although there were many things I wanted to do, I had to keep the promise I made to myself, however scary and uncomfortable the responsibility wouldn't be. After all, I was the one to blame, so I had to swallow the bitter pill.

The bitter pill of _apologizing._

Don’t ask how much time I spent rehearsing what I would say to Mimzy. Seeing there wasn’t much else I could do at the hospital, it probably has been _hours_. Or _days_. I thought I was ready for everything, well-prepared, as for an exceptionally hard exam. But, as always in such situations, it was nothing more than a lie I was telling myself. No one has a gift of precognition; as long as another human is being involved, there was no telling how a conversation might proceed. All we can do is be ready for the worst while counting for the best; even if the grimmest always turns out to be a great surprise.

And so, I stood there, just outside the Palace. Fully aware of disrupting the evening just before her shift started, I deemed it to be the better of the two options; the other one was to bother her at home, and that didn’t seem to be proper at all, to impose myself like so. Kicking me out of the club she was employed at would probably be easier, and more humiliating for me, seeing the ton of passersby strolling through Basin Street. They were shooting me curious looks, and no wonder. I looked quite miserable and peculiar at the same, with a huge bouquet of purple hyacinths and sweet peas in one hand and a cane in the other. I still needed some help walking, and Charlotte was so dear as to lend me her staff; yes, the bourgeois one, with an apple-shaped precious gem handle, and subtle, yet intricate engravings on its shaft. Way too flashy for my taste, but who was I to be fussy?

„Mimzy!” I exclaimed, seeing the tiny figure of the songbird walking down the street. Carefully, she watched every step she took, so her kitten heels wouldn’t get caught in the unforgiving cobblestone, making her fall down rather ungainly. With furrowed brows, she concentrated on this task as if it was the hardest in the world. Or perhaps, there was something on her mind, and it was just an impression I got of her?

„Alastor? What on _Earth_ are you doing here?” Mimzy scuttled in my direction, suddenly never minding the tough surface. ”Shouldn’t you be having your audition now?”

”Oh— You’re right, I should! I’ve forgotten all about it.”

”You’ve _forgotten_? You never _once_ skipped your radio show! Has something happened?” She then took notice of the flowers in my hand. ”Or have you finally set your priorities straight and would rather go on a date? ’Atta boy,” she added teasingly, smiling, but the usual spark in her eyes was nowhere to be found.

”Date? Oh, no! These are for you!” I handed the bouquet over to Mimzy, whose eyes widened in genuine surprise. ”I wanted to apologize for what I said that day. It was unfair of me, and rude. I didn’t mean anything, and I pray to the Heavens you could find it in your heart to forgive me because I can’t imagine a future when you are no longer by my side as the best friend one could wish for.”

”It’s alright. I won’t say it didn’t hurt, because I promised to never lie to you. But I know you didn’t mean it. Most of it, at least.” I left out a deep sigh of relief. Mimzy buried her face in the myriad of purple flowers and continued quietly. „I owe you an apology too. I was too quick to judge Miss Magne, and it’s only fair you would get angry for me disrespecting her. I should have trusted your judgment more, and I’m sorry.”

I felt disoriented at her confession, but glad and at ease at the same time. „Does it mean you don’t find her off-putting?”

„I do. But I’m respecting your choices.” She stoked the petite petals gently, melancholically even. Then, she jerked up her head, behavior switching back to the usual, teasing and straight-forward Mimzy I knew. „Took _you_ long enough, though!”

„I know I should have come about earlier, and I assure you, I wanted nothing more! But, in my defense, I got in a... **stabby** kind of situation, and was indisposed for the last two weeks.”

”You got into **WHAT** ?” Mimzy was clearly confused. She looked me up and down, and shrieked, finally noticing my cane. The bouquet she held in her hands fell on the pavement as her hands vaguely covered her mouth. Mere milliseconds later, she reached out her hand to grab me, but stopped inches from it, hovering above my forearm. I always found it sweet, and in all honestly quite amusing, how even in such an elated state, she remembered my aversion to sudden touch. After I nodded, with no remorse, she violently _dragged_ me to the nearest bench, forcing me to sit down.

”How- what the hell happened to you?”

”Maybe, perhaps, I might have gone a liiiittle bit overboard with drinking, and alcohol-induced confidence made me think I am more than capable of beating the living devils out of a few street thugs.”

”My God, Alastor.”

”They were mean!”

”How could you ever _think_ it was a good idea,” she sighed, clasping her hands on her chest.

”Tony said I didn’t think at all, and I suppose he is right,” I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ”Don’t worry though, I got lucky and at Charity stumbled upon Char— _a very qualified doctor on duty_ ,” I corrected myself, deeming it was probably for the better to avoid the subject of my lady friend for a while, “who managed to patch me up, so these two stab wounds didn’t turn out to be too big of an issue.”

”Alastor, **you could have died!** ”

”But I didn’t.”

We sat in silence for a while. Comfortingly, I patted her back, as she got lost in thought, gazing blindly at the now shaggy flowers in her hands. I know she was worried out of her senses, although it was never my intention. No matter what I said, she would still be concerned. I didn’t blame her. How could I, and for what? Her pure friendship? For the heart she had on her sleeve? I just wished I could lead a boring, simple life, at least akin to one I led before I went on my quest. Before I met Charlotte. But, sitting beside my friend on a bench on a busy Saturday evening, I knew nothing would ever be the same again, and I would make Mimzy weep and worry time and time again.

And I hated myself for it. I _hate_ myself for it. Because I know, being faced with the same choices once more, I wouldn’t change a thing, and I would hurt her again.

I was sorry for many things, for those I had done, and for those I knew I was to do. I wanted her to know I had appreciated her, and was eternally grateful for her help. However, writing this down on paper now is hard, and God knows sounds so bland, the emotions eating me from the inside impossible to express through words. Tony, however crude, was right back then to suggest trying the language far superior to that of men.

I was no expert on the symbolism of plants, and gladly accepted help Mr. Eble offered me when I entered his exquisite flower shop. He gravely underestimated just how indecisive and ignorant I was when it came to his specialty. Disgruntled, he handed me a thick tome over, depicting hundreds, if not thousands, species of flowers with their respective properties and meaning annotated on the pages. It was a fascinating read, and vastly helpful. The choice I made, purple hyacinths and sweet peas, turned out to be just what I was looking for.

I didn’t expect another image to catch my eye. However, one of the pages bore a beautifully detailed depiction of dainty, dark purple flowers, which bemused me when I saw them in such abundance at Charlotte’s residence.

The page read: _Atropa belladonna_ , a species of nightshade I was very familiar with, though I pushed the knowledge into the deepest recesses of my mind. These tiny flowers and fruits decorated my childhood home, too. My mother had many uses for them. Usually, she utilized their pharmaceutical properties to relieve the pain of those who came to her in need of help or even while doing something as simple as curing an upset stomach. Privately, she insisted that plant was of uttermost importance in magic, of which she was an avid practitioner. Although it didn’t make her fly, like witches of the past believed, belladonna was apparently helpful with opening her third eye and summoning the spirits. Me, I was prohibited from ever touching my mother’s supply. Every single part of the plant is highly poisonous after all, hence the common name, deadly nightshade, and its questionable reputation as a symbol of deception, grave danger, and ultimately, death.

I do admit, however ridiculous it might sound, reading those words on paper and making immediate association with Doctor Magne’s stately mansion on Prytania Street made me feel uneasy. My mother was a simple woman, a commoner; she didn’t always have access to modern medicine and had to use alternative, albeit risky, methods when needed. It was also quite understandable she believed in such nonsense as magic. How could she know any better? Charlotte, though, was a woman of science. None of the two could apply to her. Perhaps the abundance of belladonna was for the research of its unknown properties, checking for some safer application in actual treatments? Yes, that did sound reasonable enough.

Right?

„Thank you for the flowers, Alastor.” Mimzy broke the silence and handed an object over to me. „I have something for you, too.”

„My notebook!” I flicked through it promptly, noticing a lot more pages filled in with writing far rounder and neater than my own. Not only did Mimzy keep it (how could I doubt her!), but apparently, also continued the research on her own, even without my participation. How bored must she have been, poor darling!

„I didn’t dare to go and return it to you, but I also didn’t want to be an obstacle in the course of your investigation, so I just took the liberty of continuing where you left off, hoping you would soon come to pick it up and wouldn’t mind me imposing myself.” I looked at her with eyes widened and a straight mouth, because Mimzy, are you _kidding_ me? My idiocy doesn’t go as far as to be angry at the help I need to receive! So, I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

„I did some more digging on the ring, and at this point, I fear we should consider it a dead end. I cannot find anything more in any books available in New Orleans libraries, nor while interviewing some known magic practitioners in the city; they either genuinely didn’t recognize the symbols, or just didn’t want to talk. So, we are out of options. Legal ones, at least. The underground might know something, but I decided against trying to contact them, especially without your approval.”

„I’m glad you did, Mimzy. I can’t allow it, that would be too dangerous.”

„I know, and I agree, but I fear in the future we might have to. But, for the time being, there is another lead to pursue. While reviewing your notes and sketches, a doll caught my attention. Well, to call it a ‚doll’ would be an overstatement. You know, the thing made of dark hair, with the very indistinct shape of a human, vaguely resembling a worry doll made by a seriously troubled child?”

„Yes, I know the one. It gave me the creeps.” I shivered, remembering the thing of nightmares even Mary Shelley or Edgar Allan Poe wouldn’t think of.

„Did you see it with your own eyes?”

„Now you mention it, no, I don’t think so. It’s strange. If it got photographed, it should also be in the evidence box. I perused through it carefully, so I would have seen it. Could it possibly get misplaced, perhaps?”

„I thought so too, but that’s not the case. It’s missing.”

„How can it be missing—” I stopped. „Wait. How did you get access to the files?”

„Detective Husk was so kind as to let me browse through.”

I raised my eyebrows, flabbergasted. Maybe slightly offended, too. „He made me beg himself for _years_ before he let me read them!”

„There is nothing a bottle of good, home-brewed moonshine arak straight from the Holy Land cannot do.”

I hit my forehead strongly in disbelief. Of _course,_ the best method to approach a grumpy old alcoholic would be by bringing him booze. It still baffles me how it didn’t even occur to me, but yet it so easily did to Mimzy. A wonderful example showcasing what a fine specimen of a _dumbass idiot_ I am. And, as much as I hate to admit it, just how desperately I need people with some extra brain cells to accompany me in life.

„Mimzy, you’re _impossible_. What did you learn?”

„It used to be a part of evidence material, but approximately a month after the murder was committed, it was stolen, right from the station.”

I rolled my eyes. „Sometimes I wonder how this country still hasn’t turned into absolute anarchy with a police force as competent as this. What was the officer on duty doing? Sleeping?”

„That’s my guess, but not in the I’m-so-tired-oh-gosh-I-need-some-rest kind of way.” I looked at her with clear confusion. „The man had just started an affair, and the lady was known to visit him at the station. So, you can just assume why they were so busy not to notice a thief breaking in. Just to be clear, they were most likely having se—”

„ **YES I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN**.” I blurted out, red in the face. „What happened to him? I suppose he got demoted?”

„That he did. He took his pretty blonde mistress and moved to Houston, and that’s the last Detective Husk has heard of him. Or, at least that’s how much he was willing to tell me before kindly encouraging me to ‚fuck off’.”

„Sounds very much like him. Way more than all the gossiping.”

„Well, Alastor.” Mimzy put hands on her hips. „With all the time he spends at the bars, it would be weird if he did _not_ know some juicy tittle-tattles.”

„Do you know how to find that adulterous man? He might have somehow caught a glimpse of the thief in the middle of the… act…” I blushed again. „We should interview him.”

„If I’m being honest, he is suspicious, and that girl of his is, too. Just because one is an officer, and the other is a woman, doesn’t mean they should be crossed out of the suspect list.”

„Dear Mimzy, I think you might hold some prejudice against blondes,” I teased.

„Considering my own hair is blonde also, that would be quite unfortunate.” Mimzy shrugged her shoulders. „One thing’s for sure: they both need to be questioned.”

„Do you think what I’m thinking?”

„Yes. We are going to Houston.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Similarly to the World, the Sun card is regarded as a good omen, indicating favored luck to come, especially in one’s love life, but also genuine friendship and trust. It is also a symbol of childhood. However, in the reversed position the Sun’s meaning flips also, standing for loneliness and rejection._  
>    
>  Well, I hope you liked the chapter! How fast the time flies, we are nearly at the 1/4 of the story! Seems as if I uploaded the fic just yesterday 👀✨ However, don’t fret - there’s still a lot to come! After all, the investigation isn’t going smoothly ~~who would have known!~~ , and the little clues our brave protagonist ~~or rather his support~~ has found lead to nowhere; at least for now. Maybe the little field trip will enlighten them? I suppose we have to wait and see… next week!  
>    
>  **Footnotes**  
>  1 Mr. Charles Elbe - one of the esteemed florists in New Orleans around the time; he was mentioned in the 1895 issue of „The Times-Picayune” as a winner of prizes for his work at a flower show.  
>  2 Elizabeth Blackwell (1821-1910) - the first woman to receive a medical degree in the United States, and the first woman on the Medical Register of the General Medical Council. She played an important role in both the United States and the United Kingdom as a social awareness and moral reformer, and pioneered in promoting education for women in medicine.  
>  3 Mary Edwards Walker (1832-1919) - the first female surgeon in the US. She also served as such in the U.S. Army during the Civil War, for which she was awarded the Medal of Honor. She is the only woman to have received that award.  
>    
>  If you wanted to follow me on twitter, I’m [@frumpy_furby](https://twitter.com/frumpy_furby). I post updates there, and some more fun stuff!


	6. The Magician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning** : mild sexual content in the first few paragraphs; please skip the italicized part if this causes you concern!

Thursday, August 17, 1916

 _Her body wafted onto the mattress, sinking in like a petal descending into the warm, mellow surface of the water. The myriad of her hair came undone, spilling the waterfall of golden locks on the sheets. The faint, sweet smell of vanilla perfume on the heated skin of her neck intoxicated me in a way no stimulant ever could. Her huffed warm breaths, akin to a summer breeze, skimmed my clavicles. My mind was fogged; the only thing I knew, the only thing I_ craved _, was her. Her scent. Her heat. Her_ taste _._

_I pulled back, admiring the sight underneath me. Her chest heaved slowly, tiny droplets of sweat drizzled on her alabaster breasts, still partially hidden behind a loosely laced corset. The dainty frame of her body faltered in the slightest, impatiently awaiting my next move. She was an apparition of otherworldly beauty, overwhelming the senses of a mere mortal I was. My gaze roamed every inch of her nakedness, curious to discover what the thin veil of the disheveled chemise was so teasingly obscuring. I traced the curves of her waist, feeling her like a sculptor piece of clay. I was painting a portrait in my mind, a masterpiece to behold and never forget. She shivered, and I looked at her face._

_Oh, her_ face.

_I cannot even begin to describe the vehemences rambling in my head upon the sight of it; they didn’t have a beginning, nor an end. A storm of contradicting emotions roamed within me. Lust. Longing. Safety. Danger. Bitterness. Resentment? Enmity?_

_I sunk into the ocean-deep abyss of her dark eyes, and I recognized feelings I have been experiencing as well, but none of the ones I’ve been_ expecting _to find. She wasn’t her usual confident and proud femme fatale, sure of her needs and the exact ways to satisfy them. No — her eyes were_ innocent. _So very maddeningly_ innocent. _Pure. Yearning. Was a slight tint of_ fear _tainting them, too?_

_But one thing, they were devoid of._

**_Hesitance._ **

And then, I woke up.

Vivid dreams were something accompanying me my whole life, both a curse and a blessing; and in all sincerity, I didn’t know to which category did my last night’s fantasy belong. Every single time the vision came back to me, I felt my cheeks burn with the power of a thousand suns; and the fact these images seemed to be stuck in my mind like a catchy tune, did not help.

Back then, I was still **very** much a virgin. I had no experience with women whatsoever, not counting the instance on which I turned Mimzy down. For a while, I felt uncomfortable with the fact — as if I was lacking in something; but I suppose a plethora of factors played a part in such a state of matters.

I was twenty already, and most men my age usually had plenty of… well, experience, as well as a sweetheart or two on their record. Having a brother like mine, who made money using his extraordinary vast expertise of all things sex, wasn’t helping, either. Not that I was jealous, no, it would be insane. Every day I pitied the man. But I was curious how sex would feel. As an act of _love_. How it would be to come undone before someone, and for a little while, be completely and fully theirs. I didn’t crave sex for solely the physical aspect; if I did, I knew I could have satisfied my curiosity with ease during a casual evening stroll through Storyville. But, I couldn’t imagine myself just… so close to any random girl... or a man, for that matter. And, maybe because of my never-ending work or the general lack of time for building relationships, I haven’t met such a person for the longest time.

Charlotte was the first to bewitch every single one of my daily thoughts and nightly visions.

No wonder I tried what I could to distract myself, hoping to gather all the focus I had left and concentrate on tasks on hand; especially the boring ones, like technical drawings for my work. Because _yes_ , somehow I _did_ find time for a down-to-Earth daily employment. Although I must say with how lunatic my boss was, it was _nothing_ but ordinary. The man used to be a professor at my faculty, but got laid off after he conducted one of his crazy experiments on the campus. English lord by birth, he had nearly an endless source of income, and the money he had _loved_ to spend on everything mechanical: flying means of transport safer than planes (at least in his concept), laser beams, _egg factories_ — you name it! As he packed his bags from university, my talent and passion for engineering caught his eye and he offered me a position at his business. I honestly have no idea whether it should be considered a compliment or an insult, seeing the man the praise was coming from, but I needed the money, and he paid well. So, I took the job.

Both the hours and other conditions were quite flexible and the only requirement was for me to meet the set deadlines. And so, not being forced to stay at the office or at my attic, I liked to work on the fresh air, especially during hot, summer days like the one I am about to describe. Seeing I still had a few hours left before I would embark on a train to Houston with Mimzy, I took my sketchbooks and necessary data to the Coliseum Park, located in close proximity to the newly opened Texas & Pacific Railway Station on Annunciation Street.

Sitting on the green grass underneath one of many impressive water oaks growing in the park, I relished in the pleasant cold its branches provided and started sketching. At first, it was going just as intended. Numerous ideas for intricate machinery, with tons of switches, wires, and buttons (some functional, some added for aesthetics purposes and to entertain Sir Pentious) filled the pages, but with time, unwittingly, my mind drifted away and my hand began to create something different. Likeness of Charlotte superseded the boring, lifeless schemes. She smiled at me from the pages, with hair loosely cascading down her back. Another Charlotte gave me no mind, sitting in bed, immersed in reading, wearing nothing but a satin nightgown. Some other Charlotte looked at me with doe-like eyes filled with purity, trust, and desire, just like the goddess who had sojourned me in my dreams.

And then, my fingertips lost contact with the rough texture of paper. Petrified, I jerked my head upwards to see who _dared_ to lay their hands on another’s sketchbook so barefacedly, so _insolently_.

A pair of actual doe-like eyes were staring back at me.

Not actual as in a female deer specimen. Actual as in Charlotte Magne, **in the flesh**.

The shriek that escaped my lungs was one no schoolgirl in all of Louisiana could compete against.

„I had no idea you were such a talented artist, Alastor. You have a phenomenal eye for detail. Although I must disappoint you, I am afraid my bare silhouette looks vastly different.”

„I’m— I’m— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I don’t know what came over me—”

„Oh, no, it is quite alright! I am flattered to be perceived so favorably. And please, remember to breathe.”

I was glad for that reminder, because yes, I might have possibly forgotten breathing was a concept and as a human being, I very much required it to stay alive. Easily, if asked about the most embarrassing moment in my life, I would pick that one — even taking into account making an idiot out of myself is everyday bread for me, so there would be a plethora of situations to choose from. I cannot help but wince every single time I think of how much of a love-struck fool, with an _enormously huge_ dash of a concupiscent adolescent I was to behave this way. My _God_ , her seeing nude acts of _myself_ would be less humiliating.

Not that such sketches existed, of course.

„Alastor, **breathe**. Slowly. Yes, just like that. Better?” Charlotte gently put her hand over my shoulder, to which I didn’t even react, lost in the overwhelming panic clouding my mind.

„Yes,” I choked, embarrassed. „Better.”

„I am deeply sorry for imposing myself and so carelessly taking hold of your prized possession. Out of all people, I should know better than to browse through an artist’s sketchbook without asking for permission beforehand, for which I apologize.” She handed me the notebook, and after a second of thinking, added, „I could model for you someday in the future, if you so desired.”

Was she trying to **kill me**? The shade of red I must have turned into was most likely a brand new color previously unknown to mankind, and my heart raced as if I had just run a marathon. I wasn’t an artist. She _knew_ I wasn’t, I just gained some drawing skills due to my profession. Why did she have to tease me so? Oh, the stress I constantly went through with her shortened my lifespan quite a bit, I am convinced of that.

But, by some miracle, I managed to stay composed. Sort of.

„I— I don’t— I won’t— I mean you are stunning and I would _love_ to, but that—” I stammered, putting a foot in my mouth. Processing the words I let slip out, I froze, blushing violently and waving both hands in the air at the speed of the finest Dutch windmills. “ **That is just too much, I can’t** **_possibly_ ** **draw you in such a way!”**

„To be fair, loverboy, you already _did_ , and I am simply concerned about the accuracy,” she snickered. “I know sitting for an artist is strictly professional, no need to be so flustered, Alastor. I used to be painted before. Besides, it would only be fair. Looking through an artist’s sketchbook is like reaching into their hidden yearnings, and I would lie if I said I wasn’t interested in yours. Since a pinch of my curiosity has been satisfied, it would only be fair if I succumbed to yours too, darling.”

_‘Darling’._

It was the first time she used this term of endearment. With time, I got accustomed to all others, even the God-forsaken ‚loverboy’, and they didn’t have much of an effect on me anymore. But somehow, simple, very ordinary and common ‘darling’ made my heart pound in a way none of her pet names did before. There was intimacy behind it, her ever so sensual tone only strengthening the effect. Men, they threw ‘darlings’ left and right, as did some women, though less frequently. But not Charlotte. I knew, I _felt_ it was a term she reserved for special occasions. Special _people_. And that made me feel wanted. Needed. Important.

But it wasn’t the only divergence from what I was used to. Straight-forwardness was one of Charlotte’s staple character traits, but not to _this_ extent. Her frankness used to go only one way, sort to speak; she was always teasing, but at the same time keeping a safe distance. That day in the park, it seemed her direct approach had entered another tier. And, however attractive I found such a development, it made me feel uneasy.

‚ _Skirts_ **_love_ ** _dark, mysterious, smug men.’_

Anthony’s words rang in my ears. I’m aware how foolish it sounds, but I sincerely feared with how much stronger _already_ confident Charlotte was becoming, she would soon be bored with me. I didn’t realize the precise reason she appeared to be changing was because of who I already _was_ , not in an attempt to change me or… whatever I thought her secret agenda was. So, I came to a brilliant conclusion: I should perhaps follow my idiot, whore brother’s advice and access my (frankly) non-existent Rudolph Valentino side.

"Now, that won't do. How come you could so temerariously denude my most private thoughts whilst offering me only a professional favor in return? My interests also seek satisfaction..."

_‚Make use of those deep, deep eyes of yours and beguiling, mellow voice’_

”...darling,” I added as alluringly as I could with the little courage I mustered.

"Is that so?" Charlotte practically purred, gracefully settling herself on the ground, right next to me.

"Bare your deepest, darkest desires before me, Charlotte."

Yes, **_I said that_** **.** I know, I _still_ can’t believe I did, with no stammer, no blushing, no sudden tripping and kissing the ground or ending at Charity. I like to believe Tony would be proud if he heard me. Even though in reality, I probably sounded more excruciating than enticing.

„My deepest desires are unfulfillable, beyond the reach of any man.” Charlotte’s statement lacked the voluptuous undertone it had previously. I was confused. I didn’t know what to think of this sudden change, and it baffled me greatly. Even more out of my element than I was just mere seconds prior, I didn’t have a clue of how I should proceed; before I could utter any sort of reply, she continued. „Do you ever wish you could turn back time, Alastor?”

‚Yes,’ I thought, but before the answer could escape my mouth, I paused. This reply was obvious. Immediate. But was it the right one?

Memories of times past haunted me, and I couldn’t help but speculate whether there was something, _anything_ I could do to change what happened. What _didn’t_ happen. I wished my mother could see me assemble my first functioning crystal set. Congratulate me on getting into university and receiving a scholarship. Cry on my graduation. Maybe even dance at my wedding and hold my children in her arms, if Fate ever blessed me so. How different my life would be! I wouldn’t experience harassment at the orphanage. I wouldn’t be afraid of physical contact. I wouldn’t be traumatized and scarred for life.

I wouldn’t have met Anthony. I wouldn’t have grown up to be as resilient as I was. I would have settled for what was available for me, rather than fight and aspire for more. I would be a completely different person than I was. Than I _am._

„No, I don’t. However cliché, the past made me who I am. And, in the end… I think I turned out alright. Who knows who would I be if life was more complacent to me? Dwelling on the past brings nothing but pain. Future is everything we have.”

„Do you live by what you preach, Alastor?”

„What do you mean?”

Charlotte smiled sadly, ignoring my question. „Not everyone has a future to look forward to.”

„Uncertainty is what makes it beautiful.”

„Blessed be everyone whose fate is not predetermined,” she gazed past me into the horizon, “blessed be everyone who is not cursed with walking among the dead each day.”

The morbidity of her words sent a shiver down my spine. I had questions, of course, but I decided against asking them. Our conversation had taken an uneasy enough turn, and I feared pressuring Charlotte would make her relieve some experiences she would rather forget and keep hidden deep within her psyche; I knew the feeling all too well.

Being a physician, she dealt with matters of life and death on a daily basis. Medicine advanced, yes, but we still were unprepared to fight certain illnesses. Just over two months prior, a polio epidemic broke out in New York, raging on the East Coast, killing over two thousand people. It seemed to have stopped there, but how could we know whether or not it would spread further? Not to mention the memories of the 1914 bubonic plague outbreak which broke havoc right here, in New Orleans, were very much fresh — and would probably still be, if not for the unimaginably deadlier pandemic which was yet to come.

Everyone was on edge, tired, scared, uncertain, and on top of it all, there was war destroying Europe. However heroic President Wilson’s efforts to keep the United States out of it were, the time we would join the warfare was nigh, and the awareness of the fact grew in the society. The rape of Belgium in 1914. The sinking of RMS Lusitania. The horrors were growing impossible to ignore, and even though we preferred to watch from the sidelines, for peace, and the lives of our soldiers, Europe _needed_ us. And how could we leave someone in need without helping?

And if we, regular citizens, felt all this, the struggles individuals working in the medical field were going through were hard, if not impossible, to grasp. Charlotte must have been exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She was going through hell, and no wonder she felt as if her choices made her _walk among the dead_ , rather than the living.

So, I came up with an idea. Maybe taking a break would help her regain some of her strength. Maybe it would make her feel more alive. Maybe _I_ could help her?

„I think I might have a cure for that,” I said with conviction, breaking the silence.

„Oh?” Her voice was still devoid of any sort of emotion, or indication of interest.

„Next Friday, at 3 pm. Please wait for me, Charlotte. I have something I want to show you.”

She sent me a soft smile in reply, and it warmed my heart to see her spirits lifted with such a simple act of mine. She didn’t even know the plan I had in mind. Was her loneliness so great her mood improved by a mere thought of spending an afternoon with another being? With _me?_

My short self-indulgence moment was promptly stopped by the bell tower tolling, announcing the hour. I looked at my watch and gasped in horror. It was already 7 pm, and our train was leaving in 15 minutes! Mimzy was going to kill me.

Excusing Charlotte for leaving so abruptly, I ran towards the T&P Station as my life depended on it. Because frankly, it did.

══════════════════

Friday, August 18, 1916

„Mimzy, wait,” I groaned, „I can’t keep up! How can you have so much energy this early in the morning?”

„Stop sipping coffee and just walk, then you’ll keep pace with me. Also, 9 am is hardly early!”

„It’s _brutally_ early when one didn’t get a second of shut-eye during the night!”

She stopped, crossed her arms, and gave me the stinkiest eye I have received in a while. 

I deserved it.

The train route from New Orleans to Houston, although quite picturesque, isn’t the fastest one, the sheer distance between the two cities not being the sole reason. The main problem has a name, and a glorious one at that — the Great Atchafalaya Swamp. Without a bridge of sorts, which would be ridiculously expensive to build, penetrating the largest swamp of the continental United States is impossible, lengthening our commute significantly. I’m no train expert, but I suppose if we could cut through the heart of the basin, our trip would take about six hours instead of over nine1.

We wouldn’t have to choose a train with a sleeping car, either. And let me tell you, even simple drowsing as a passenger of such a loud, shaky means of transport is not the most comfortable experience one might get, especially with motion sickness, however mild it might be. The night was _painful_ for me, but for poor Mimzy, more literally than figuratively.

For hours, I did everything I could to fall asleep at least for a second, my usual insomnia severely strengthened by the poor conditions for dozing off we found ourselves in. However inappropriate taken out of context it might sound, _no position in bed seemed to work for me_. I rolled and wriggled around, to no avail. At one point, desperate for solutions, I stood up and reached out for my bag, hoping to find an answer in there. Maybe some medication. I don’t know, _something_. _Anything._

The night had fallen a long time ago and everyone in the compartment was asleep, so I tried to be as quiet as possible, not forcibly making anyone a companion in my sleepless misery. A noble intention, that was; however, my gracefulness, or the lack of thereof, severely _disagreed_.

The bag fell out of my hands, and not only did I fail in catching it in time. No - it managed to land with a loud _thud_ on slumbering Mimzy’s lap. She muffled the impact, most likely preventing anyone else from being woken up, the price of her unintentional heroism being bruised, and probably sore, tights.

But, Alastor, such accidents happen, you’d say. Why did you feel so horrible as to _remember_ it even after so long? Moreover, why did you decide to torture your future self, or an unfortunate, walk-in reader of these senseless scribbles, with details of nothing more than a common mishap?

Well, because _there is more_ , and although I would rather be remembered by posterity as someone other than a gawky, cloddish _cretin_ , apparently that is my inescapable legacy.

With exceptional elegance only I possess, I attempted to catch the falling bag mid-air, _slapping_ unsuspecting Mimzy in the process. She jumped in her seat, rightfully startled, and stared at me. I wanted to apologize and ask if she was unhurt; thinking too fast, I couldn't prioritize either. So, trying to shriek ’I'M SORRY’ and ’ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!’ at the same time, I blurted out:

” **ARE YOU SORRY?** ”

Mimzy looked at me even more baffled. She blinked a few times, before finally answering.

”For your company? _Terribly.”_

Realizing yet another mistake, I opened my mouth to explain myself, _again_ ; but I was swiftly hushed by Mimzy. I jumped at the sudden touch, hitting myself in the frame of the bed. Indignantly I glanced at her, and in response, she gestured to me to just go back to lying and _not moving a damn muscle_ until the day breaks, unless I wanted to wake up the entire compartment. Obediently, though embarrassed, I curled up in the bunk, massaging the hurt spot on my head.

So, you could say, the night wasn’t the easiest. When we arrived, I looked like a hangover man at best: my hair disheveled, and under eye shadows even more pronounced than usual, the dark brown liquid of the gods in my vacuum tube the only thing keeping me standing somehow straight. Mimzy, despite everything, was striking as usual. Only two things differed from her everyday style — she went heavier with the blush, counterbalancing the mighty slap she received not so long prior, and simply brushed her hair, skipping the signature Marcel waves she typically sported.

„Oh, the secret to my _great mood_ is straight-forward!” Mimzy exclaimed enthusiastically, bringing me back to Earth. Her expression, however, remained straight. „ _Someone_ has to compensate for a certain douchedork’s petulant behavior, and I don’t see any other candidates.”

 _Ouch_.

Fair, though.

After a short commute from the Union Station on Crawford Street (a beautiful Classical Revival building, I must note, although nowhere as outstanding as the brand new T&P in our Crescent City), we arrived at our destination — oh irony, _Louisiana_ Street, at which Tom Trench was to reside, at least to Husk’s knowledge. The road was filled with colorful bungalows on both sides; however, none seemed to be the one we were looking for. We strolled up and down, with no success. Under my nose, I began to curse. Coming all the way here, relying solely on the recollection of an old alcoholic whose memory was probably more holed than Swiss cheese, wasn’t the brightest idea we could have. Even if he reassured Mimzy he couldn’t have possibly forgotten such a ridiculous name coincidence.

„Excuse me,” I heard Mimzy accost a passerby, “by any chance, do you happen to know where does Mr. Thomas Trench resides? We’re his old acquaintances, and wanted to pay him a surprise visit.”

„The name does ring a bell, although I can’t be sure…” The woman with sheep-like hair and a ridiculously thick sweater, _especially_ considering the hot, Texas summer weather, hummed.

„He moved here ten years ago. From New Orleans? He used to be a policeman. Quite short, blond slicked hair, face covered with pustule scars…”

„Oh! The policeman! You could have stopped there. I know who you are talking about, but I fear you won’t be able to meet him.”

„Why?” We inquired, looking at the woman curiously. „Did he move?”

„If you can call a departure from the earthly plane so, then yes, he did.” Our eyes widened in shock. Tom Trench would still be a young man. How could he be dead?

„How… how did he die?”

„I’m sorry to deliver the news, although belated, to you both, but he was murdered. His case was quite a big one in the media back then, you know, a young policeman, recently moved, met his demise like this, nothing left of his body due to the fire likely started by the culprit. I don’t know much more about it, believe me, if I could tell you what happened to your acquaintance, I would. I was a mere teenager back then. If he weren’t my neighbor, I would probably have already forgotten all about it; times are turbulent, after all. Maybe try your luck at the police station?”

I cold chills ran down my spine, my chest suddenly getting heavy, and one look at Mimzy relentlessly chewing her inner cheek told me the same thoughts must have been roaming through her mind.

Although we didn’t have enough information to confidently state Tom Trench’s killer had the same _modus operandi_ as the culprit we were looking for, the coincidence was unsettling. What were the chances a man responsible for losing a crucial piece of evidence in a murder case would get killed _himself_ , just by a sick twist of fate? With no connection to the previous investigation whatsoever, so soon after he got taken off of it? Improbable at best, and so the assumption of Tom being murdered by the same killer didn’t seem too far off. It was also proof Trench did, indeed, know something of importance, if the killer went as far as to travel to a different state and get rid of him, even though he was no longer on the force. Did his lady companion meet the same fate?

We rushed to the police station at Caroline Street, feeling very much on edge. The otherwise unimpressive building of Houston officers’ headquarters, especially in comparison to the Bribery Hall we were used to, filled us with anxiety, and for a good reason. Getting access into the files at a station where I was closely acquainted with one of the most prominent detectives proved to be a challenge; here, we were strangers, without any arguments to use in our favor. Possibility of policemen believing we were old friends of the murdered were slim — after all, how great of companions would we be if it took us nearly a _decade_ to contact him — and the real reason for us running an investigation as nothing more but two civilians was… well, not exactly convincing. But, what other options did we have?

As expected, we were met with a plethora of obstacles from the very start. To begin with, arriving on a Friday afternoon was not the smartest choice; the officer on duty being pissed off with having to sit there, at the station, rather than having fun out with his boys (or girls, if you follow), wasn’t in the mood to discuss anything with us, not to mention any sort of help. Respectfully, I first tried to persuade him of our past relationship with Tom Trench, and when that failed — with even less cogent reality.

„Officer, please. We are here on behalf of the New Orleans Police Department and are authorized by Detective Joe Husk to handle anything which might be of importance to the case we are investigating. Thomas Trench case files are substantial, otherwise—”

„Yeah, yeah, you will hit a brick wall, the case will run cold, and the murderer will never be caught.” He swung his hand as if whisking away a vexing insect. 

„Well, the case is already cold, but other statements are very much true! How can you be so indifferent towards a serial killer on the loose?!” I exclaimed, billowy. „He may very well kill again!”

„Are you _absolutely sure_ this is the same man you are looking for?”

„Well… no.”

„So, you have some proof of him killing on multiple instances then?”

„No,” I answered hesitantly, feeling Mimzy’s underwhelmed stare on my back, “but the circumstances point towards it!”

„Then piss off, kid, and stop wasting my fucking time. Not my district, not my business. NOPD must be desperate to better their solve rate if they are making a pair of brats run around lookin’ for third-rate cold case culprit.”

Blood rushed to my head, and I felt my hand involuntarily curl into a fist. _Third-rate case culprit_? It was a _serial killer_ , a satanic one at that, and one who offed my own **mother**! How dared he trivialize so?! Clearly not learning from my mistakes, I was getting ready to punch the bastard right in his ugly mug, but then…

„What’s her name?”

Mimzy came forward, the air of confidence twirling around her whole stance. She drilled her analytical eyes into the man, pinning him in place. The power she emitted made her intimidating despite her unimpressive height. I felt a shiver running down my spine, even though — at least this time around — I was _not_ the one she was daunting.

„What’s _whose_ name, lady?” The policeman gulped.

„The girl you are seeing. Brandy? Bunny? _Candy_?”

„What are you insinuating—”

„Candy it is.” She stated, not a sign of the slightest waver in her voice. „You know, it’s ironic. We’re searching so badly for information on the fate of an adulterous, demoted scum, who met his swift demise not long after eloping with his mistress. And yet, here you are! As if you were his long lost twin! Alastor, maybe we should just stay and observe a _living_ specimen, for once. History likes to repeat itself after all.” She hummed, tapping her lips. „Is it the blonde one?”

„What you are on about is nothing but slander, and an insult of an officer is an offense—”

„Oh, so it _is_ the blonde one! Well, who would have known golden hair can charm the pants off a man this easily.” I blushed, clearly realizing the dig she made at me also. „Does your wife know? Who am I kidding, _of course_ she is being kept in the dark. It is my responsibility as a fellow female to inform her of it, don’t you think?”

„Don’t you fucking _dare_ to tell Claudia— Goddammit.” He facepalmed, realizing his mistake. Like a child, he got tricked into confirming what could very well be just Mimzy’s wild guess or another sort of play. Now, he was done for. „Please don’t tell my wife.” The officer begged, his approach to us changing one hundred eighty degrees. „How- how did you know?”

„The secretary’s loosened corset. Your terribly, quickly fixed hair and hickeys all over the neck. A ring placed in front of a photo of you and a lovely, dark-haired lady. Honey, I’m a singer and a journalist, I can smell a scandal from a few miles, and here it was _stinking_. So, what will it be?”

I stared at her with my mouth wide open. After she explained her reasoning, it was apparent, and I saw everything, too; it really didn’t require any Hercule Poirot-level skills. Although we both shared (one) faculty, she clearly had more in her to be a successful reporter. She was logical. She could control her emotions and _not_ succumb to anger and annoyance. And, as women tended to be, she was ridiculously perceptive and observant.

She was my peer, and yet, there was so much I could learn from her.

So, not surprisingly, no more persuading was necessary. The officer, red in the face like a ripe tomato, guided us towards a separate room and left us to browse through everything we pleased. We spent a few hours there, nearly missing our train back to New Orleans; however, what we found was worth all the time and effort spent to get to Houston.

Thomas Trench’s demise was gruesome. He didn’t get much time to enjoy his new life in Texas, as he died only three months after his demotion. Although he miraculously did find employment at the station, he didn’t manage to form any close relationships with anyone there. Therefore, not much was noted in the last few weeks of his life.

His mistress identity was also mostly shrouded in mystery, although some details of her were mentioned in the files. Probably the most important was her name, which sounded familiar, although I couldn’t quite recall where I have heard it before.

Clementine Barnabet quickly became a prime suspect in Thomas’ case; apparently, she vanished around two months preceding his death. Although the police did its supposed best, finding her has proven to be impossible; she had left the city and seemed to not have been a local to begin with. For us, she also became a person of interest. Not as a culprit — her profile didn’t fit the one made for my mother’s murderer — but as an important witness. She must have known something; she would have to be as blessed in disguise as the Unsinkable Miss Jessop2 for it all to be nothing more than a mere coincidence.

And such coincidences just weren’t awfully common occurrences.

As for the crime itself, some details of it matched our case like pieces of a puzzle, while some were not present. Primarily, no traces of any sort of rites performed were found: no summoning circles, no dirt, no dolls, no nothing; but, with how severely the scene has been touched by fire, without a Husk to swiftly put out the flames, it cannot be crossed out such particulars were there, but simply didn’t survive. It was the coroner’s report that proved to us, without a shadow of a doubt, Tom Trench’s killer was the same one who murdered my mom.

His heart, liver, and marrow were removed with surgical precision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Magician card is associated with the craving for creation, getting acquainted with new matters and people, as well as the love for knowledge. It’s a person who possessed everything, just to start anew._  
>    
>    
>  Well then! Another eventful chapter passed. Alastor got flustered, made an idiot out of himself, _numerous times,_ and then Mimzy saved the day; who would have thought, am I right?  
>    
>  But, but! I have good news, and bad news. Since I have no way to ask you, dear reader, which one you would rather receive first, I will just go for it in order.  
>    
>  To start with, **thank you for 1000 hits**! 🎉🎉 It’s a huge milestone for me, and I couldn’t be more grateful for all of you reading my story, and hopefully enjoying it!  
>    
>  Which brings me to the other news… while the next installment we follow Alastor as he goes out with Charlotte (finally!), and it’s pretty lengthy (that’s also the good part!), chapter 7 is going to be the last posted in a weekly schedule. **Starting with chapter 8, chapters will be posted every 10 days**. It’s still a while till then, but I wanted to let you know; the reason is, while upload days are always exciting for me, even with having a backup of a few chapters, having to write one weekly is too stressful for me 😅 I hope you understand!  
>    
>    
>  Gosh, that was long! Nothing more to add ~~except maybe "HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!"~~ , than… see you next week!  
>    
>    
>  **Footnotes**  
>  1 It wasn't until the Interstate era (starting 1956), with its limitless sums of taxpayer money, that the road builders succeeded in penetrating the heart of the Atchafalaya Basin—with an 18.2 mile long bridge carrying Interstate 10 between Henderson and Rosedale.  
>    
>  2 Violet Constance Jessop (1887-1971) - Argentine ocean liner stewardess, known for surviving both the sinking of RMS Titanic in 1912 and her sister ship in HMHS Britannic in 1916. She was also on board RMS Olympic when it collided with a British warship, HMS Hawke, hence her nickname, Miss Unsinkable.  
>  It should be noted HMHS Britannic sank in November 1916, so Alastor knowing about her is artistic freedom on my part!  
>    
>    
>  If you wanted to follow me on twitter, I’m [@frumpy_furby](https://twitter.com/frumpy_furby). I post updates there, and some more fun stuff!


	7. The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warnings** : freak shows, mentions of discrimination (on the grounds of disabilities and ethnicities), panic attacks  
>    
>  ~~I know, I know. This chapter is quite fluffy, though… promise!~~

Friday, August 25, 1916

„Welcome to the Spanish Fort!”

The park bustled with life, and no wonder — the citizens of Crescent City of all social standings were desperate for any sort of relief from the unforgiving, scorching sun of Louisiana summer, which cooling breezes of the Lakefront gladly provided. Scattered all over the place were vibrant stalls painted in every color imaginable, and the scent they diffused was the mouth-watering aroma of funnel cakes, candy floss, and hot frankfurters. From one to the other, countless children of all ages ran, laughing at the top of their lungs. They played with friends old and new, disappearing behind the stands to their frenzied parents’ horror. Hopelessly trying to keep up with their offsprings’ seemingly endless recesses of energy, they pottered around, attempting to bribe the youngsters with a few more cents to spend on the delicacies offered, praying to gods it would make them stay in one place for at least a few minutes. In the background, a faint sound of jazz and ragtime could be heard, coming from the Tranchina’s Restaurant and Brown’s Ice Cream Parlor, overlapping with the joyous screams of the daredevils, going up and down on the roller coaster.

I looked at Charlotte, standing by my side, trying to gauge her opinion on my choice of venue. She was taking in the atmosphere of the park with her eyes closed, and her chest heaved slowly as she breathed in the smell of entertainment. A slight, barely noticeable smile graced her lips.

„An amusement park?” She lifted her head and glanced at me indulgently.

„A chance to be someone different, just for a day. Walk alongside the most living of the living. Just you, me, and about a million unruly kids screaming for they fell out of a ride and bruised their knees. Can’t get much more lively than _that_!” 

Charlotte snorted. „Thank you. Although I must say, your pick of the establishment still surprised me greatly!” 

„Can’t really be someone different at usual places, can you?” 

„That, my dear sir, is definitely true.” She spun, the thin fabric of her skirt fluttering, and petite heels tapping on the sandy ground. 

Although humanly impossible, and I am aware at this point I sound very cliché, I could swear every single time I saw Charlotte, she was even more strikingly beautiful. Never before have I seen her wearing only light, pastel colors, and I must say they complemented her delicate fairness in a way muted shades couldn’t. She seemed angelic in her apparel, the white, striped skirt and a sky blue pleated blouse accentuating her petite figure sublimely. With a wide-brimmed hat and an umbrella to match, she glided down the park paths, and I couldn’t be more proud to be at her side. 

Upon seeing her dolled up like that, I released a deep sigh of relief. I had tried to present my best self, too — I even attempted to brush my hair, which I never bother to do. As I awaited the arrival of my companion, I walked in circles, anxious out of my senses as the infatuated adolescent boy I was. What if I misread the signs, and she didn’t return my sentiments? I would lie if I said in my heart I didn’t consider our meeting a kind of _rendezvous_. My God, no floor would be deep enough for me to sink into — _especially_ since they weren’t exactly common in open-air venues. As 3 pm approached, I found myself cursing under my breath. I should have thought about Anthony’s advice more and opt for a more nonchalant style. Oh, what have I done! 

But, in the end, I was glad I didn’t. After all, the last time I tried to play Rudolph Valentino, the conversation didn’t exactly go the way I intended. And that hot summer day, I was adamant about reaching my objective: spending a relaxing, although exciting, afternoon with Charlotte — one she wouldn’t forget. 

„My God, it feels like the last time I was here was a lifetime ago.” 

„Cannot agree more.” I smiled melancholically. „I haven’t been here for… eight years or so, at least.” 

„How come?” 

„My mother used to bring me here on her days off,” I replied hesitantly. „I would beg her to go to the Haunted House, and she had always responded I would just run away crying and screaming the second I entered.” 

„Was she right?” 

„Every single time! But I loved it anyway.” 

„It does sound like something you would do,” Charlotte giggled. „I did not pay much attention to the Haunted House back in the day. But I always enjoyed watching the acrobats at the circus. How they defy the laws of gravity and limits of nature with just their sheer will and training, amazed me. And, my dear Taggy loved admiring the performers’ costumes.” 

„Is she the friend you mentioned to me the other day? If you don’t mind me asking, of course,” I weighed my words carefully. The last thing I wanted was to reawaken some hurtful memories, or even worse — to pry. However, after only a split second of consideration, Charlotte answered. 

„Yes. Since falling with the disease, she has been too weak to enjoy the park as it is meant to be enjoyed, so the last time I visited the Spanish Fort was… long ago. It… didn’t feel right to come here alone, just by myself.” 

„You aren’t alone now, Charlotte.” 

I took her small hand in mine and squeezed it gently. Her skin was cold as ice, but velvety soft all the same. Startled at the unexpected gesture, her hand shivered slightly, nearly unnoticeably. Seeing her so stunned, and so very _vulnerable_ , made my heart sink. Her usual smug and snarky attitude was nothing more than bravado, and deep within her, shielded with the greatest care, was a scared, lonely girl, desperate for affection and comfort she would never admit she craved. Slowly, I raised my hand to her cheek, and tenderly wiped the silvery beads forming in the corners of her eyes. 

She didn’t react, and simply stared at me, frozen like a marble statue. Her expression was that of longing, but also devastation; as if she has just realized something hidden from her before. I stroke her face with the back of my hand, and steadily, she came back to her senses. She put her hand on mine and squeezed it, too, before lowering our arms to the sides. 

„Call me Charlie, Alastor. Let’s be someone different. Just for a moment, just for a day.” 

══════════════════ 

And so, we promenaded around the park, hands laced together. We made use of all the facilities the Spanish Fort had to offer, and I even let her talk me into a ride on the roller coaster, the wooden construction and absolute lack of any safety precautions whatsoever utterly terrifying me, to say the least. I have to admit, the feeling of putting my feet on the good ol’ boring, stable ground, was the most exhilarating I had felt in a while. Charlotte, however, was having a blast — both because of the sole excitement we had the (questionable) pleasure of experiencing just mere seconds prior, and at my own pitiful expense. What could I do? I wasn’t as brave as her, although, off the record, I am not exactly sure whether the characteristic she so boastfully expressed wasn’t foolhardiness, considering the reasons. 

The whole predicament of the damned scenic railway made my immense need to _prove_ myself to Charlotte even stronger. An opportunity arose straight away, in a form of a curious game, in which one could win a plushie as a prize. However, rather than shooting a target with a pellet gun, the task was to defeat wooden giants with great arms, moving in a circular motion, with nothing more than a lance. Thankfully, their army wasn’t a great one - only three or four soldiers altogether. 

Nothing a brave warrior couldn’t do! 

After prompting Charlotte to wait at a safe distance (to which, for some unknown reason, she reacted with a raise of her eyebrows and pitiful stare), I took a wider stance, charging my strength to strike a deadly blow to the monsters. 

„Alastor, you are aware these are not giants, but wooden windmills, and small ones at that?” 

„It is easy to see you are not used to dealing with such adventures. Please, if you are afraid, my dear Charlie, just stay back and pray for my success.” 

„You cannot be serious—” She breathed through her nose, pinching the bridge. „Actually, never mind, I will watch from back here.” 

„Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you!” 

As I charged towards them, the sails began to move increasingly rapidly. My heart knew no fear; the questionable stare of a lady, most likely highly concerned for the state of my sanity, imploring me to overcome all the obstacles. I was unstoppable! Undefeated! 

That is until my lance came into contact with the unforgiving sails, which whirled it round and shredded it to pieces. Desperately, I tried to pull its remains out of the brawny giant’s grasp; I put my foot against its torso, to aid my strength, but to no avail. Suddenly, the monster’s arms stopped, frozen in place. Unprepared, I fell onto the ground with a loud thud.

I blinked a few times until I saw the vague shape of Charlotte’s figure standing over me, her hand placed on the giant’s head. In her other arm, she was holding what seemed to be a red deer plushie. 

„I turned the mechanism off... are you at least _physically_ alright? Alastor?" 

„I perished in a vile fight with the giants. It was an honor to have met you.” 

She laughed. 

The pearly sound swirled all around us, infusing the air with the sweetest timbre. It reminded me of a bird, chirping happily outside my window in the early spring, shaking off the morning dew off its wings, and sprinkling the fresh leaves in the greenest shade of greens with the droplets twinkling cheerfully in the hazy rays of sunshine. 

It was pure. Innocent. And so very _sincere_. 

Charlotte, despite her sharp tongue and straight-forwardness, was a lady of restraint. She smirked, she chuckled, but heartfelt, genuine laughter was something unexampled. Usually, it wasn't candid, or at best had a melancholic undertone. That time, for the first time, it seemed to come from her heart, filling her whole being with overwhelming joy, one warming her weary soul and core. It showed in the way she bounced on her legs. It showed in the way she giggled, like a girly without one care in the world. It showed in her eyes, shining with an inner light. 

I smiled, lying there in the sand, bruised, and ridiculed. Humiliatingly defeated. And elated, because the game might have been lost, but I have won something far more precious. 

Although time and time again I have, for better or for worse, very much proved to _not_ be one of the smartest of wits, I was not deranged enough to make the same mistake as Don Quixote. I was, however, exceptionally clumsy, and awkward, with a wondrous talent for getting myself into ridiculous situations. These were some of my greatest vices; qualities no man of sane mind should be proud of. They weren’t admirable, and in a conventional situation, were enough to deem a person a walking disaster, unworthy of any sort of attention. 

But, that was just who I was. I was no film noir _beau_ , nor a casanova. I wasn’t a mysterious, alluring stranger, or a strong macho. 

I was just me. 

And if behaving like a helpless cretin from time to time was all it took to make her laugh so genuinely, I would gladly become the most hopeless bastard in the whole of Louisiana. Because being myself didn't make me any less of a man. Because making the woman I loved happy was all I needed to feel whole. 

„My brave hero,” she giggled, hugging her adorable mascot tightly, “after committing such a feat, I suppose you must be in dire need of some strength. What do you say to replenishing yourself at one of those appetizingly smelling stands?” 

Before I could even open my mouth and reply, the loud growl coming straight from my stomach acted as enough of an answer. 

══════════════════ 

Only when I found myself waiting in line at the food booth, I realized just how hungry I was. The few minutes felt like an eternity in Hell, the mouth-watering smell of spices and quiet sizzle of frankfurters grilling taunting me, _torturing_ me, as if I suddenly were a sinner condemned to the third circle. Surprisingly enough, Charlotte seemed to be famished, too. Usually eating like a bird (indeed making me quite concerned), that time around she was stopping next to every single stand we were passing. Being the gentleman I was, I bought her all the treats she wanted, until I worried I might run out of readies. But, seeing her devour an enormously big, pink fairy floss, and then proceeding to follow up with sticky candy apples (how did she even find them at that time of the year?), was certainly making up for it. So voraciously Charlotte gobbled the snacks, she started coughing uncontrollably, covering her mouth with a reddish handkerchief. 

Well, at least, for the first time, _I_ wasn’t the one to get food all over my face. 

Her behavior was so different, but so endearing. Charlotte, the graceful, melancholic Charlotte, capered around like an exuberant debutante would, stopping only to furiously rub her face to get rid of the nasty sugary coating covering it. She seemed happy; genuinely, truly happy. 

I wished I could make her life so cheerful and carefree not only for a day, but for the days to come, too. For her to let _me_ try that. 

A bright flash, and a loud _bam!_ , like the one of gunpowder, brought me back to Earth. Startled, I turned towards the direction of the sound. A shooter I saw, but not the gun-handling one; rather, a simple photographer, taking pictures of children, adults, and any other happy individual who wanted to commemorate the day. 

I certainly was one of them; one knowing look at Charlotte and I knew she was, too. And so, I took her hand, and we darted towards the man, laughing with every single skip. 

After the photographer was done developing the previous couple’s photos, he focused his attention on us, guiding us to the right spot and giving directions on posing. Despite my (not exactly hidden) excitement, I was nervous, too; it has been a while since I had a picture of me taken, and the last I was posing with a woman was probably when I was still a kid, sitting on my mother’s lap. 

Charlotte, on the other hand, knew _exactly_ what she was doing. I might have yelped in shock when I felt her hand guiding mine and placing it confidently on her dainty waist. The photographer whistled at her boldness. I looked at her, baffled, but her eyes were full of racy glimmers. They were testing me. _Challenging._

A challenge I accepted. 

Barely noticeably, I glided my hand further down her waist, pulling her closer. Yes, I couldn’t believe my audacity, either; but somehow, having her so near, evoked something I never knew I had, something I didn’t yet understand. 

„I like this side of you, Alastor,” Charlotte whispered in a lowered voice, which sent pleasant shivers down my spine. She then turned her dark eyes towards the photographer and beamed the most joyous smile she had in her arsenal, her arms hugging tightly the red deer mascot she won for herself earlier that day, by rescuing me from the cruel, murderous windmills. 

Half an hour later, the picture was in my hands. It was radiating pure, distilled happiness. We looked like a newlywed couple, so full of life and enthusiasm, our hair disheveled after the exciting day we spent at the park. Despite the monochrome tones of the photo, our flushed faces were still apparent; as was my jocular gaze, exuberant with the dazzling lady by my side. I would frame it and hang it on my wall later — so that every single time I came home after work, ragged and exhausted, I would be greeted with a frozen in time memory of the most cheerful couple on this side of the Mississippi at that one special, transient moment.

Thanking the photographer for the tremendous job he did with our portraits, I ambled towards Charlotte, sitting comfortably on a bench, sipping water from one of two bottles placed to her side, and enjoying the subtle coolness tree branches provided. The eventful day had tired her; and so, she asked me to sit down with her for a while, so she could get a chance to catch her breath. I passed her one of the pictures and, once again, our hands touched. 

It was brief, and fleeting. But something about the unexpected sensation of her cold skin gently grazing mine, made me yearn for more. I didn’t want to jump away startled. I didn’t want to let go. Not now, not ever. 

And so, my hand searched for hers, now peacefully rested on the seat, hidden in the batiste drapes of her skirt’s fabric. 

I lifted her palm, and with gentle brushes of fingertips, I studied it. I marveled at the smooth, silky texture. A hand so sublime, so _perfect_ , seemed ethereal, like that of an angel, rather than a human. It had no scars, no welts; only thin, bluish veins, showing through her pale, transparent skin. So petite, precise, and elegant. I stretched my fingers — and hers fit perfectly into space between them. As if it was the very place they were meant to belong to.

I lowered our hands and saw Charlotte’s face so close to mine, her breath tickling the side of my cheek. Her chest heaved, and she looked at me intently. 

Time dilated and the world froze, even the sound of birds chirping ceasing, as I gently cupped her face, and ever so slightly leaned in.

I closed my eyes, but just before my lips could touch hers, something stopped me in my tracks. 

Something small, white, and sticky. 

_Goddammit._

As much as I was in dire need of some luck in my life, I would much prefer _another_ form than a blatantly rude pigeon deciding my head was the perfect spot to use as its toilet. I cursed under my breath, shaking away the hand with which I had automatically touched the nasty spot without thinking. 

„Seems you had a bit of an avian excretory accident,” Charlotte giggled at the ridiculousness of the predicament. Honestly, I probably would too, if that wasn’t _my_ hair getting bombed so unceremoniously. „Come here, I’ll help you clean up.” 

„Thank you, Charlie,” I sighed, resigned. 

Then, without any sort of warning whatsoever, she poured the _entire_ contents of a water bottle on my head, ruining the remains of the fancy hairstyle I had struggled so much to put together earlier that day. 

„ **WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!** ” I yelped. 

„Would you rather risk contracting candidiasis, or cryptococcosis, or some other bird fecal matter related disease? Death due to a pigeon dropping a bomb on you is certainly not the way to go, loverboy.” 

„I’d… much rather die less tragically than I lived, yes,” I admitted, water dripping all over the wooden bench.

„Wouldn’t that be nice,” she snorted, ruffling my hair. „You know, it looks better this way. You don’t have to change anything, Alastor.” 

I smiled, her compliment warming my heart. For every little kind word, I was grateful; for years, I didn’t receive any sort of confirmation, which was probably one of the main reasons for my crippling insecurities. I was like a parched traveler, thirsty for any sort of kind, reassuring phrase I could be blessed to hear. And although at first, for a long while, I didn’t comprehend an accomplished, beautiful woman might actually _mean_ what she says, I always appreciated it. And, with time, it helped me realize I might just be something more than I thought. She was the power lifting me, and with her encouragement, I felt like I could achieve anything. 

Out of the blue, Charlotte sprung up from her seat, and with youthful exuberance pointed her finger at a huge, colorful tent standing close to the border of the park. 

„Look, a circus! We _have_ to go and see the show!” 

„I take it as you are feeling rested already, Charlie,” I chuckled and stood up, shaking the remaining water off of my hair. Some droplets have hit my companion, too; startled, she looked at me like a betrayed feline thrown into a bathtub. 

The revenge felt sweet. 

══════════════════ 

Upon entering the tent, my eyes were met with pitch darkness, filling my heart with dread and anxiety. I took a few uneasy steps on the uneven ground, keeping Charlotte close to my side. Everything was silent; only quiet scrapes, probably the props being moved to their rightful positions, could be heard. With difficulty, I grabbed a seat; but before we could settle ourselves comfortably, an ear-splitting din of drums and trumpets resounded, with harsh lighting blinding our eyes. 

"Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for!" 

The world started spinning in a luscious array of indigo, deep red, and gold, glittering all around in a myriad of colors and textures. I turned around rapidly, trying to take everything in, in all of its breathtaking glamorousness. The clapping of the excited audience overlapped with the music, and soon enough they merged into one continuous tune of exhilaration. 

"Sit back, and enjoy the greatest show in all of Louisiana!" 

I looked at the stage and gasped as a delicate girl in a feathery dress swung up under the ceiling and over our heads, nonchalantly, as if flying was as natural to a human as walking steadily on the ground. Sequins sewn to her costume with utmost precision reflected the light beautifully, and she shone, like a star so bright to be capable of blinding an imprudent watcher even during the day. For the acrobat, gravity seemed but a minor obstacle to be defied, a challenge to be taken with full confidence in her evident success. Then, with a grace any feline could only wish for, she wafted onto the mattress, and my gaze followed her. 

She disappeared among the group of dancers. The sheer fabric of their skirts fluttered all around them, as they lightly swooshed around the stage, with self-assurance and ebullience in each move of their hips and shoulders. The choreography was so enticing, I felt increasingly filled with their seemingly bottomless energy. But then, they scattered to the sides of the scene, and a man in a fancy, eye-catching suit strolled through the middle, spinning a cane in the air. With a loud thud, he pushed it onto the ground, and the tent went silent. 

„And now, please give a warm welcome to our **freaks!** ” 

I could swear upon his baritone exclamation, the bright suddenly got dimmer, and gold lost all its glittering properties. The boisterous laughs of the audience distorted, and their joyous faces crooked in an exaggerated manner as if they were monsters themselves. Just like that, I found myself on the other side of the looking glass. 

I gulped and squeezed Charlotte’s hand for comfort. She didn’t even flinch. The only person unaffected by the twisted malformation of my perception, her eyes were filled with stars, glued on the men and women entering the stage. Utterly fascinated. Mesmerized, even. 

I shivered. 

Dressed in equally striking, glittering apparel, were people the sole sight of whom made my stomach turn. I did feel bad about it later, I truly did; the girl with her knees wrenched to the other side didn’t ask to be born this way. Didn’t ask to be forced to walk on all fours, unable to ever stand up straight and look at the summer sky in awe. Neither did the Elephant Man, his skin completely grey, dry, and wrinkled, like that of the giant African animal. Or the fair albino, who I knew for a fact was suffering greatly every single time unforgiving rays of sunshine hit his white skin. 

They didn’t ask to be in pain for the entertainment of the masses. The deformed. The dismembered. The mauled. 

The _freaks._

Once again I looked around and dreadfully realized no one shared my horror. The audience was either nearly as enticed as Charlotte, or tried to keep pretense, posing as terrified, covering their eyes, but from between fingers taking in the show in its whole nauseating glory, with sick, perverted pleasure. 

Fascinated with the macabre, those, whom nature has forgotten and sentenced to a lifetime of never-ending suffering; one they might not even be aware of, for they have never known life without pain. Laughing and clapping cheerfully, as girls with multiple legs and men without any limbs struggled across the stage. Giving them attention, in love with their abnormalities. 

So how come, when met with even the slightest of differences in everyday lives, they looked with disgust, discriminating, _abusing_? Every single one of the people on the stage, if not for the questionable luck of being a sequin-wrapped laughingstock, would struggle to stay alive every single day, met with nothing but indifference or baseless hatred. On the show, being _exotic_ was an asset; on the street, it was a foolproof way to be spitted at, or hearing one or two disgusting jokes at best. About how they, along with all the blacks, Asians, Creoles, or even Italians should just go back to where they came from. Even if we came from _here_. Just like them. 

I felt sick. 

This wasn't where I wanted to be. Where anyone _should_ be. 

I stormed out of the tent, not looking behind even for a second. I wanted to get out. I _needed_ to get out. Far away from the monsters, sitting comfortably on the stands. 

I sat down on a bench, catching my breath. The evening was nearing, and so, the scorching sun was setting, too, allowing for a cool, night breeze to comfort my distress. 

„Oh, Alastor! Rushing off in the middle of the show is quite rude! Especially one so unique.” 

I didn’t answer. Her voice was muffled as if she spoke from underwater. I barely heard her; and the words, I refused to acknowledge. 

„I wish we could have stayed until the very end. Maybe we could even sneak into the backstage and have a closer look at the performers!” Charlotte either somehow didn’t notice the state of panic I was in or was simply unfazed by it. My head hurt as if it was splitting open, sudden high pitches tearing through my brain. 

„I don’t think that would be right.” My voice was bland and devoid of emotion. 

„Ooh? Are you perhaps _scared_ , Alastor?” She teased with a wicked smile, which stretched further as she continued. „Of how the nature _mauls_ , and _twists_ …” 

„It’s human nature that’s twisted.” 

I lost my patience. The horrors she saw through life I didn’t grasp, but knew well enough to presume they must have been unimaginable to make her this apathetic to people’s misfortune, for better or for worse. I didn’t blame her for her outlook, but I was different. I was sensitive, and others’ pain I could not stand. I couldn’t stand hearing such nonchalance, either. Even if the grounds for it were understandable. 

„The very reason why the rare instances in which the rotten souls are reflected in the macabre physique are so… _enticing_.” 

„Looks don’t reflect the purity of one’s soul!” 

„Oh, believe me, I would know. But even in the bodies of vile monsters, you see them as human, don’t you? And humans, by nature, are _foul_. Human nature is twisted, you said so yourself. No matter if they are beautiful but immoral _femme fatales_ or kind-hearted Quasimodos.” 

„I didn’t mean _that_! No human should be forced to live the way they live. To be laughed at and ridiculed. They shouldn’t be forced to use that as a way to be able to afford their daily bread. They aren’t some sort of specimen, they are humans, breathing, _hurting_ humans. We should aid them, we should…” 

The words spilled out rapidly, before ultimately running out. I couldn’t catch my breath, something in my dried out throat preventing me — a lump of sorts? My eyes itched terribly, and now not only Charlotte’s voice, but the whole world seemed to be shrouded in thick fog. I struggled, shakily trying to inhale, but I was suffocating. Now not only mentally, but physically, too. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I pushed it away instinctively, shivering. 

„It’s alright, Al. It’s alright.” 

Charlotte gazed at me with genuine concern, her hand raised falteringly in the air, hovering over my arm. She briefly opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but paused before finding the right words. Her eyes followed my every move, every twitch, looking for permission. 

In silence, Charlotte slowly, hesitantly put her hand on my head, gently stroking my hair. I didn’t protest. The tender gesture calmed the storm raging in my head, the thunders and screeches gradually ceasing. Lying on her lap, I felt safe. My eyes closed, and I took a deep breath. 

I don’t know how long we stayed like this, in the tranquil park, hidden from the world by the thick curtain of the starry night. Was it a mere few minutes? Or perhaps an hour? Time froze, and I wished that moment could last for eternity. Overwhelming peacefulness and serenity was something I haven’t felt in years; it was something only the presence of a loved one could grant. I didn’t think I could experience it ever again in life, and I couldn’t let go. 

„Alastor?” Charlotte whispered, breaking the silence. 

„Hm?” 

„Come with me.” 

══════════════════ 

Charlotte’s choice of venue was baffling, to say the least, but I had promised to trust her. After a long stroll down the roads of Crescent City, we found ourselves standing on Basin Street, in front of the Palace. The muffled, jaunty sounds of ragtime were coming from the inside, inviting us to join the dancing and drinking crowd inside. 

Out of all the places she could choose, this one certainly wasn’t one I would ever consider. Not only because of the distress not so long prior, but also because my favorite club in the city didn’t exactly feel like an establishment person like Charlotte would even have the vague idea of existence. What was her reason for bringing me here? Why did she… 

„You helped me be someone different for a day. Now, let me help you find yourself.” 

I looked around the familiar walls, taking in the scent of cigarettes and sweat. In the past, I used to come here so often; first as a teenager, along with Tony, pretending to be older than we were. The owner would throw us out, waving a broom in the air, threatening to — rightfully — beat us up. Each time, we would return anyway. The Palace became our place of comfort, here to celebrate, and when needed, to drink our cares away. 

But, then came life — and however much my idiot brother protested, taking care of my responsibilities became my top priority. It should also be mentioned, back then, we lived together, and he definitely _wasn't_ the one paying the majority of rent. My visits became more and more scarce. But, already as a student at Tulane, I met Mimzy, who happened to be employed at the Palace as a singer. Although I never went back to frequenting the establishment as often as I did in the far past, she did convince me to come to her shows a fair share of times. 

I looked at the stage, and surely, there she was, shining like a diamond in the lights, right in her element. She sang her heart out and looked astonishing while doing so. No wonder she had so many fans; Mimzy was blessed with not only a phenomenal voice, but also natural magnetism and glamour, which mesmerized the ones who saw her shows. 

**♫ Original Dixieland Jazz Band - Satanic Blues (1919) ♫**

I turned back to Charlotte smirking smugly, clearly very much pleased (and perhaps relieved) with my reaction to her hazardous, and quite bizarre, move. I still didn’t feel completely fine (how could I?), but the jovial atmosphere of the place was having a positive impact on me. The memory lane on which I was sent was a delightful one for a change; and now, creating a new one with Charlotte with it, was special, too. 

Before I knew it, she grabbed my hand and practically _dragged_ me to the dance floor. I still wasn’t confident or in the mood; but, I wouldn’t be able to refuse her even if she gave me such a choice. How could I possibly, when she was so eager and full of energy? 

Although my mind had already decided to give up to her enthusiasm and join her in the jive, my shaky legs knew better than to cooperate. I stumbled and wobbled, stepping not only over my own feet, but Charlotte’s, too. Most of the time, she managed to escape my rude attacks by gracefully hopping around, to the sides and to the back, but my clumsiness was one to behold, impossible to escape. I looked at her apologetically; although it didn’t seem like it, I was a pretty good dancer. That day just… wasn’t a good one to show off my skills. Defeated, I let go of her hand and turned back away from the dance floor.

„Relax, Alastor!” She exclaimed, barely able to outshout the loud, jolly ragtime notes plunked on the piano with a few other instruments adding to the variety of the tune. She spun, getting in front of me in a flawless triple step. I yelped when she, once again, pulled my hand and brought me back to the middle of the floor. This time, with a different, unorthodox approach. 

All of the girls I danced with prior, whether they were great or mediocre dancers, did what women are traditionally expected to do and followed my lead. It was a set, unspoken rule, which no one dared to break by dividing the roles differently — neither them nor myself. 

And then, there was Charlotte. Blunt, daring Charlotte, who blatantly pulled and then pushed me away, forcing _me_ to spin around and follow _her_ lead. Every move she made was so nonchalant and carefree as if what she was doing was the most natural thing in the world. Baffled, I let her guide me; a novelty I certainly wasn’t used to, but one spiking my curiosity and burning a different sort of excitement deep within my core. 

„What are you— where did you learn to swing like that!” 

„My dear, a girl is not all opera and fancy restaurants. May I just say, I hide many talents you have yet to uncover,” she pulled my bowtie, bringing me to her level. Mischievously, she stared deep into my eyes, before swiveling away. 

Oh, so _that’s_ how we’re playing? 

Confidently, I rocked in front of her and folded her arm behind her. Charlotte shot me a surprised glance but adjusted to me reclaiming the lead. We walked with a triple step, and instinctively, she over-rotated, her skirt fluttering with a spin. I picked her up close to my chest, feeling the heat radiating off of her. Charlotte’s heart was beating furiously, barely staying in her chest. A drop of sweat forming beneath her brow traveled down her cheek. Her steps, however, showed no signs of exhaustion; she swung around fiercely, challenging me to keep up. Time and time again, I picked her up in a close, and we spun around the dance floor, feeling the looks of bystanders on us; we paid them no mind as we continued to Texas Tommy around. 

Briefly, I glanced at the stage, to see Mimzy still in the spotlight. Her star wasn’t getting dimmer, but as our eyes met just for a second, I noticed the distress concealed in them. I knew her; she would never let pesky feelings get in the way of the performance, no matter the circumstances. She poured all the emotions raging within her into the song, resounding with power in the Palace walls. I bit my lip, sudden guilt pouring over my heart, although I had nothing to be guilty about. So what if I went with Charlotte to Mimzy’s club? She didn’t own the place, and it’s not like we were doing anything inappropriate! 

Despite, somehow, staying inside didn’t feel like the right thing to do anymore. 

I took Charlotte’s hands and spun her around a few more times, gradually moving away from the dance floor. She was perplexed, but followed me without question, as I led her out and through the door. 

Basin Street’s pavement didn’t stop us from dancing some more. Stepping, we got away from each other, but like magnets, we were pulled back together with unexplainable force. I put my hands on Charlotte’s waist and lifted her, light as a feather, up in the air. 

Then, the rain started falling. 

Charlotte laughed in the drizzle, jumping back into the ground. She swirled her skirt, hopping around me happily, gracefully capering between puddles of water. I hummed to the rhythm of the music, still hearable from the Palace’s inside, but muffled by the distance and soft trickle of rain. The sensation of cold drops dotting our heated skins was heavenly; the late-night zephyr caressed our bodies, as we gradually transitioned into a slower tempo. 

I wrapped my arms around Charlotte, and we swayed to nature’s greatest pianissimo. She leaned in, cradling her face into my chest, and I hugged her tightly in return. Against me, she felt soft and velvety. Petite and delicate. 

A contradiction, a glitch in the world’s matrix; Charlotte had an effect on me no other ever had — she intimidated me, yet seemed so vulnerable; toyed with everyone, but was so genuine in my presence. No matter how much I tried, my simple mind could never comprehend her. 

But, my heart did. And it loved, so deeply, so truly, with the innocence and passion of the first infatuation.

She raised her eyes, eyes filled with tenderness and yearning, and the evanescent moment we shared wasn’t enough for me, not anymore. However close we were, however strongly I embraced her dainty frame fitting so perfectly into mine, I couldn’t assuage my longing. I wanted to hold her in my arms forever, warming her aching heart with the adoration burning deep within me. 

Was it too bold? Too daring, perhaps? 

Might well be. But, right there, on the boulevard glistening with rain in the dim streetlamp lights, my yearnings finally became too strong to keep in check, overflowing the floodgates I have so meticulously built over the years. The fear of rejection, of the unknown, made way to the sheer desire filling every fiber of my very being. 

Cupping her blushing face with trembling hands, I kissed her fervently. 

Having no idea how it should be done, I invaded her mouth, hoping my eagerness would make up for the complete lack of experience.

Her lips were wet, and bitter like almonds, but somehow, to me, their flavor was the sweetest ambrosia. I put my hand in her hair and deepened the kiss, and she gasped softly. 

Charlotte pulled away, and my heart skipped a beat. The expression on her face was one I could not decipher. Did I overstep the boundaries, which shouldn’t be crossed? Did I make her uncomfortable? I opened my mouth to apologize, but before I could, she pulled me down and returned my affections with ferocity. 

She slid her cold, petite hands around my neck, keeping me in place as she caressed my lips, satisfying her own hunger. Unlike myself, Charlotte wasn’t lost; she relished in me, _devouring_ me with the hankering of a woman starving. Starving for intimacy. Starving with the need to love, and be loved in return.

And then, she froze.

„Charlotte?” I looked at her with concern, holding her shoulders gingerly. „Is something wrong? I- I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me—” 

She pulled back, tense. Lost, her gaze clouded, and she touched her burning lips. „Do not apologize, because I... I want you too. God knows I do. But it is something I should not do. Should not _feel_. I… Don’t forgive me. _Please_ , don’t ever forgive me, Alastor.” 

My heart sank as her figure disappeared hastily into the darkness, only the echoing sound of her heels tapping on the pavement left. Fleeting thoughts filled my head, and not one of them I could grasp. A minute before, I was the happiest man alive; now, only the black pits of despair left my faithful companions.

Companions in loneliness, because yet again, I was so painfully, utterly _alone_. 

Drops pattered against the cobblestone. 

Was it rain, or were they my tears?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The World equals happiness, prosperity and joy. It’s associated with dreams coming true, as well as a plethora of success in all areas of life. Reversed, it is sometimes considered to symbolize the hesitance to accept the incoming welfare, or the opposite of the main meaning - so, an overwhelming amount of hurt and unluck._  
>    
>    
>  So… _this_ happened, and our status quo just got a bit ~~(alright, _a lot_ )~~ more complicated. Alastor and Charlotte got so close, only to be torn apart so soon. How cruel fate ~~or a sadistic writer~~ can be.  
>    
>  And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the wait until the next chapter will be longer, since — as I warned you previously - **we are switching to a 10 day upload schedule**.  
>    
>  Therefore, see you on Tuesday, March 2nd! ~~and please don’t murder me before that~~  
>    
>  If you wanted to follow me on twitter, I’m [@frumpy_furby](https://twitter.com/frumpy_furby). I post updates there, and some more fun stuff!


	8. The Hanged Man

Monday, September 11, 1916 

The week following the day I spent with Charlotte was… hard. I was shattered, and heartbroken, and so very _confused_. For hours I lied on my bed, listening to records and staring at the wooden ceiling, trying to find a logical answer, a _reason_ , for what happened. Not surprisingly, to no avail; the only thing I identified being some bark beetles, happily chewing on my tatty roof.

**♫ Henry Burr - Last Night Was the End of the World (1913) ♫**

_Last night the stars were all aglow_

_Last night, I loved, I loved you so_

_My heart was glad for you were near_

_I held your hand and called you dear,_

_My dear and then the stars grew dim and cold_

_The moon grew pale, my heart grew old_

_My dream is o'er to live no more_

_Last night was the end of the world_

The song ended, and Charlotte’s words, with the sound of her heels tapping away, once again echoed in my ears. Despite what she told me, I couldn’t help but blame myself. No matter how I looked at the situation, which angle I took, I was always the one who brought it about. I couldn’t _not_ forgive her, because there was nothing to forgive; the only one unforgivable being _me_. Even if I was not able to pinpoint the exact reason _why_ I caused her so much distress.

Maybe she just wasn’t ready? That was the first possibility I considered, but it didn’t make much sense. After all, she not only didn’t protest; she reciprocated with a ferocity equal to mine, if not stronger. Charlotte wanted it, she said so herself, and I had no reason not to believe her.

Or, maybe, I was simply _that_ bad of a kisser? I mean, yes, _God_ , _especially_ looking back, I am certain I was more horrific than terrific, however still not awful enough to cause a woman to quite literally run away in terror. Moreover, if that was the case, Charlotte wouldn’t have leaned in willingly; she would push me away immediately, and we wouldn’t have kissed for… well, for as long as we did.

The blatant rejection I suffered hurt, _a lot_ , but it didn’t cause me to care about her any less. Charlotte was still close to me, very close, and I worried about her. I wanted to check on her, see if she was handling the situation better than I did. Clear the air between us, if she felt alright with it. 

And so, every day was a constant struggle, a battle I was fighting with myself not to run to her, to see her, to talk to her. But, rationally, coming to Charlotte’s home wasn’t the brightest idea. With my main fear (and probable explanation) for her behaviour being an involuntary intimacy violation, invading her privacy so soon after didn’t sit right with me in the least, and not only - I didn’t trust my composure to stay in check enough to not cause a ruckus just in front of her door. Pathetic, I know - but a reasonable concern, implied from my conduct and the way time and time again I had proven in emotional situations to be thinking with nothing _but_ my brain. The last thing she needed were juicy gossips spreading around Uptown about Doctor Magne’s lunatic, rejected lover. No, no - I _definitely_ wasn’t risking _that_ scenario.

Besides, imposing myself on her in such circumstances could have devastating consequences, which I did not want to learn the hard way.

But, there were other things that I, indeed, needed to learn. Therefore, as soon as my first stage of grief passed, I once again threw myself into the whirl of investigation, a great distraction from my other… issues.

A long time had passed since my and Mimzy’s little Houston expedition. Although I had never met Tom, in a way, I pitied the man, despite his affiliations and conduct. Still having some faith left within me, I thought that no one, especially so young, deserved to die like he did, so brutally and gruesomely. So, it came as no surprise that when I wasn’t thinking about Charlotte and analyzing _her_ behavior, my mind was set on finding the possible _modus operandi_ of the culprit. 

Peculiar it was, yes, but by no means unparalleled. It bore striking similarities to the one of Jack the Ripper, a man still at large, who I am convinced will go down in history as the most famous unsolved case. Both men’s trademark was organ extraction. The reasons for this procedure are, of course, unknown; but, for Jack, alienists hypothesize it had something to do with his deeply rooted abhorrence towards the female kind — seeing he went for uteruses and kidneys. Some doctors of the mind go as far as to suppose the grounds for his atrocities stemmed from his sick interpretation of the Bible as well. Back in the day, kidneys were thought to be the center of conscience, emotions, even the very human soul — which view was common among many cultures, an example being the fate of Prometheus, condemned to having his liver repeatedly ripped out for all eternity, for disobeying the orders of Zeus. 

Our killer, similarly to Jack, deprived his victims of the organs with very similar symbolic connotations — that is, hearts, marrows, and of course, livers. But, unlike the English murderer, the man I was looking for didn’t choose his targets using any sort of key; there was no connection in the profile of my mother and Tom Trench, at least not one I could think of. Was it enough to strike off the possible religious motive? I didn’t recon, especially since there was a high chance the killer used these organs in some kind of a ritual. However, it still wasn’t the only possibility. He might as well have used the whole magic mojo as a diversion, to lead the investigation astray, while actually he was for example working for a crime underground conducting some unethical medical experiments, or simply be a cannibal with a taste for human meat. However horrid it sounds. 

If we had witnesses, or even a _single_ witness, determining the exact motivation of the culprit would be much easier — but, we had none. The only one was Clementine, a very suspicious woman indeed, the sole link between both my mother’s and Tom’s cases. After the facts about Trench’s demise came to light, the sincerity of her interest in the meager man like him became even more improbable. Surely she was using him for some gains, but what were her goals? Were they personal, or was she tangled into a much bigger scheme? Perhaps she was a _femme fatale_ , closely related to the killer, acting as a diversion and his faithful accomplice. If she was such an escort, no wonder she was impossible to find — not without resolving to less legal measures, and as I established with Mimzy all those weeks ago, they were our last resort. 

Before we ran out of options, there was one more I could check out, one more place to search for possible clues. One I was afraid to explore and so adjourned as much as I could. 

My own past. 

══════════════════ 

If I could just snap my fingers and recall all the horrid events of the night my mother was brutally slaughtered — believe me, I would. Although my trauma-induced amnesia was by no means my fault, a natural reaction from a terrified child, I couldn’t help but blame myself for it. I failed in protecting her, and I couldn’t even do the basic thing and aid the investigation when the time was nigh. 

Completely inept and useless. 

Therefore, if I couldn’t count on my memory for accessing my past, I had to think of other means. Ones that hopefully, the place I spent all my teenage years at, could provide. 

The Protestant Orphans’ Home. 

Many times before I have been told I should be grateful for being taken under the good people’s wing, rather than being abandoned on the street like many other parentless children, _especially_ since I wasn’t even a Protestant to begin with. Although I couldn’t argue with this statement, the point being true for the most part, years spent at the Constance Street establishment were living hell for me. Not because of the caregivers, no — they were saints — but rather because of the other children. I came there traumatized, and if not for Anthony, all the bullying and abuse I experienced would probably drive me to commit the gravest of sins. 

So, I wasn’t exactly keen on coming back there, even for a brief visit as a fully-grown adult. However, my records, still stored in the orphanage’s archive, could include some information valuable to the case. I didn’t know _what_ kind of information. At this point, anything of even the slightest of substance would be more than welcome. 

With a heavy sigh, I knocked at the door. 

„ _Dio mio_ , look who the cat dragged in! Do my old eyes deceive me, or is it my dear _patatino_? How much you have grown!” 

„Hello, _Signora_ Nicoletta,” I smiled at the elderly woman in an old-fashioned bonnet. 

Although all of the volunteers and workers at the orphanage I remember fondly, no one more so than the frail, old lady who stood in front of me. A Sicilian immigrant, _signora_ was like a grandmother to Anthony, and by extension, to me, too. After I became friends with him, she took me under her wing and very special care. I no longer had to hide under the stairs; she always had a safe, cozy spot reserved for me in the kitchen. And, like any _nonna_ would, all the time she stuffed me with all kinds of _bruschettas_ , _cannolis,_ and _biscottis_. I never had to wolf down my meals in fear of being jumped at by bullies again. I never had to go to sleep hungry. All because of _signora_ ’s kindness. 

„What brings you little rascal back here? _Mamma mia,_ thank heavens I just baked a _cassata_! Come, come! Oh, you are so thin, I _have_ to tempt you to at least one slice!” 

„Thank you, _Signora_ ,” I laughed, seeing the corpulent old lady hurtle towards the kitchen, driven by some sort of innate grandma-instinct. „Although I miss your _cassatas_ greatly, it’s not the reason I came here. I would like to ask you a favor.” 

„Of course!” She exclaimed, clasping her chubby hands together. „What do you need, my dear?” 

„I know it’s a lot to ask, but could I perhaps see the archives?” 

The ever-present smile on _nonna_ ’s face dimmed. „Alastor, my _patatino_ , you know I cannot possibly do that. These files are confidential. If the headmistress knew, I would never hear the end of it…” 

„ _Signora_ , please. You know I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.” 

The old lady bit her lip, and for a short while paced around the corridor, deep in thought. I felt anxious. Indeed, some nerves I had, having the audacity to come here after a few years of complete absence, not a word or even a card sent for Christmas. If she refused, I wouldn’t blame her. Helping me was a personal risk she wasn’t obliged to take, especially with how much she aided me in the past. God, how pathetic I was. I just took and took, and I— 

„Alright. But please hurry, _patatino_. Half an hour, before anyone sees you.” 

I let out a huge sigh. I wanted to thank her, but before I could, she shushed and led me up to the attic where the records were kept. _Signora_ Nicoletta didn’t need to hear my gratitude; she just _knew_. She saw it in my eyes, and it was enough. 

That’s how much of a saint she was. 

The stiffness of air was the first thing which struck me about the archive. The fine prints of my shoes impressed onto the dusty floor as I walked, and I thought to myself, the possibility of anyone coming here, was next to nonexistent - as long as I stayed quiet, that is.

The files themselves, they were ridiculously unkempt, and the sole fact made me scoff under my nose. With how much emphasis the caretakers put on teaching us the importance of obedience, organization and tidiness, one would think they abode by, too - but clearly, that wasn’t the case. Looking around the stashes of papers, I opened a few folders at random, since they weren’t even arranged by years of wards’ admission, or anything else in particular. It looked like it would take a long while before locating _my_ file.

And so, there was no time to waste.

My eyes run around an uncountable number of names. I skipped past a plethora of Johns and Janes, Williams and Annes, Edwards, and Dorothys, and… 

Charlotte Magne? 

I tensed, staring at the name on the stained piece of paper. Oh, the irony - in the end, even if I tried to run away from the thoughts of her, there was just no escape, wasn’t there? Hesitantly, my finger planed over the letters written in an impeccable cursive. 

Curiosity, dangerously close to nosiness, filled me. In my hands, I held Charlotte’s history. Perhaps here, I could find the possible answers to questions haunting me. At the same time, though, opening the record would be a huge breach of her privacy; after all, if she wanted me to know, she would tell me. On the other hand, I didn’t actually ask her about her past, afraid of evoking some bad memories she might have.

However, files didn’t feel emotions, so opening them wouldn’t hurt anyone, right? 

Not without pangs of conscience, I browsed through. The sole fact she was an orphan came as a shock to me; with how poised and aristocratic her aura was, I would never have guessed, since such qualities could never be learned, not to this extent, as in my opinion they were innate.

Charlotte’s background, at least according to the documents, was an enigma. As a mere toddler, she was left at the orphanage’s doorstep, with nothing more than one set of jewelry (which suggest than she was, indeed, originating from a wealthy family), as well as a piece of paper with the most basic information - her name, and date of birth: September 29, 1886. 

The records of her later years were scarce; some pages seemed to be missing, and I cursed the splendid organization of the orphanage’s record for the fact. The last entry was a note about her adoption in 1896, when she was ten years old. The man who took her under his wing was quite affluent, too, so it would seem Charlotte got very lucky. Or, perhaps, he hoped her mysterious parentage would eventually provide more than just a set of gold jewelry?

I hummed and closed the file. There was no use in theorizing. I have overstepped a major boundary taking a peek into Charlotte’s past without her permission, anyway, and moreover, the clock was ticking, and I _still_ didn’t find what I was looking for. 

Before I finally located my record, a few more minutes had passed, but ultimately, a thin folder found its way into my trembling hands. I hesitated, just like I did before browsing through Charlotte’s. Because, however strange it might sound, although everything in there was, well, _me_ , I still felt like an intruder. A trespasser to my own past. 

I opened the document and, swept away by a sudden gust of wind out of nowhere, a piece of paper fell on the floor. I lifted it, and as soon as I laid my eyes on it, they filled with tears.

I was looking at the photo of my parents. 

A handsome pair they were, different in every aspect but the loving gaze with which they stared at each other. The day depicted, was probably the happiest in their lives; father, as lofty as he was, held mother’s hand gently and with pride, to have a woman like her by his side. She indeed looked striking, with the snow-white dress and veil contrasting beautifully with her dark skin and black curls of hair. 

Lovingly I stroked the photo, hastily wiping the tears falling down my face with a sleeve, before they could hit the precious paper. I saw them. I saw _her_. After so many years of desperate attempts to remember, I finally knew my beloved mother’s face. This kind of closure after being deprived of family for so long… I cannot even begin to describe the feelings which flooded my heart. Happiness. Longing. Melancholy. Warmth. Love. So, so much _love._

My father, I had never met, and his fate to this day is shrouded in mystery. In the far past, I used to ask my mother about him; but the sadness painting her face afterward was so deep and heartbreaking, I quickly decided satisfying my curiosity wasn’t worth it. The orphanage also had no data regarding his status; only the vague information that nothing is known about his life, therefore he is considered to be deceased. It came to me as no surprise (if he was out there, somewhere, he would eventually return to us, wouldn’t he?), but seeing this assumption written right there, in bold letters, stung my heart. Even as a grown man, I still had hoped he might be alive, just… lost, perhaps?

But, as it came out, he was not to be found. 

I took one more glance at the photo, and out of a sudden, a realization hit me, one which made me furrow my brows. The last clue from the files I investigated with Mimzy, the doll, was said to be made of my mother’s hair; but, her tresses weren’t straight, not by far. Therefore, with a texture so vastly different, the ones used as a material for the puppet had to be someone else’s, and brought to the scene by the culprit… but, in that case, whose?

Having no time to divulge on it anymore at the moment, I swiftly hid the photo in my breast pocket. And, I know how it looks, I know; Alastor Laurent is a shameless thief, not only blatantly stealing flowers, but now also borrowing a picture never to be returned. In my defense, however, what was the point of it just lying there, hidden among the dusty papers? For me, it was a priceless memento. For the archives, a mere routine addition to the documents. 

Predictably, my file didn’t include anything else regarding my past, or more specifically, the part which my trauma veiled from me. However, it did incorporate something very much confounding: a list, albeit short, of people who considered adopting me, but for some reason or another couldn’t follow through with it.

Out of the two names written down, only one I recognized, and involuntarily snorted seeing it. Although Joe Husk was indeed a father figure to me, I have never imagined the grumpy old man actually _considering_ becoming my legal guardian. And, from the documents, it seems he was quite adamant on it; if not for him failing to meet financial status requirements, _and_ doing the exact opposite of charming the caretakers with his welcoming personality, I would probably end up living with him. 

The other name did not ring a bell at all, even though — at least according to the file — the lady in question knew me, through no other than my _mother_. To say I was surprised, would be an understatement; because truth to be told, we didn’t have many family friends, if any at all. On the other hand, I couldn’t strike off the possibility of me forgetting her due to my amnesia. 

Nonetheless, the prospect of meeting a person who might have known my family in the past came as a shock to me; especially since the lack of acquaintances to draw up a list of potential suspects was what made the investigation all those years ago fruitless in the first place. So, if Miss Rosie really _was_ friends with mom, she might know things which I, as a mere child at the time, couldn’t. Maybe she could even tell me something which would allow me to rectify the shortcomings of the past scrutiny.

Frantically, I grabbed my notebook and copied her address. Hopeful, I closed it with a thud and ambled towards the door.

══════════════════ 

The French Market was busy as always; people hurrying between the stalls, doing their groceries, and haggling for the best potato or carrot price they could get. Normally, I would curiously ears drop on the conversations; it’s honestly amazing what hilarious stories you can peek up by listening to random people in passing. But, standing in front of Rosie’s Emporium, I certainly had other things on my mind. 

The posh boutique shone like a diamond, surrounded by the filth of the Market. The exquisite dresses and suits, hidden behind the store windows, a painful contrast to the ragged tatters of hawkers and vendors, screaming at the top of their lungs hoping to attract any sort of customers.

Rosie didn’t have to scream. Her pieces whispered temptingly to everyone who even glanced at them, and I was no different; although her prices were exorbitant, and a few times above my budget, I stared in awe of the sole genius craftsmanship shining through every single detail. One which caught my attention in particular, was an intricate pin in the shape of a stag’s head, golden in color, in its antlers clusters of reddish flowers entangled. Flowers I have seen before, but just couldn’t recall. 

„Can I help you with something, dearie?” 

I jumped, startled. The Emporium’s doors opened, and in them stood a tall middle-aged lady, her ashy blonde pompadour obscured by an enormous hat adorned by feathers. Her whole stance was sharp and intimidating. She towered over me, and I might have gulped. Just a bit. 

„Uhm, my name is Alastor Laurent, and I wanted to—” 

„The Laurent kid?” Her eyes opened wider for a second, a tremble shaking her hand, resting on the door handle. I wanted to explain myself further, but before I could, she enthusiastically gestured and exclaimed a statement I had probably heard a time too many that day. “Oh my, how you have grown! You are positively _adorable_. Please, do come in! Come, come!” 

A long arm wrapped itself around me, and before I could protest, I was already inside the boutique, sitting on an armchair, with a cup of tea on my side. I had spent all of maybe three minutes with Miss Rosie, and I managed to get intimidated, endeared, and tired out of my mind. How on Earth did a lady like _that_ get along with my reclusive, phlegmatic mother, I had no idea. I was about to find out, though. 

„What brings you here, Alastor? Are you looking for a dress or a gewgaw to give to a lady of your heart? I can give you a discount, for old times sake. Ha ha ha!” 

Did I look _that_ poor? I soured, pouting. Maybe, as the saying goes, you are what you eat, and somehow Miss Rosie noticed I had been turning into a potato, like a stereotypical proud but broke university student should. In a sense, she was right, though; not about the potato transformation, obviously, but the fact I had been eyeing the beautiful accessories displayed all around me. As I had discovered, Charlotte’s birthday was approaching. I knew we weren’t on talking terms, or well, _any_ terms for that matter, not anymore, but maybe, possibly, I could give something to her and then…

„How much of a discount?” I blurted out and immediately shook my head in disbelief for the ridiculous train of thought. _‘Concentrate, Alastor! You are here in much more pressing matters than your failed love affair’_ , I disciplined myself. „No, no, I actually came here for… the old times' sake. I wanted to ask you a few things. About my mother. If- if you don’t mind, of course.”

„Oh, of course not! Ask away, dearie!”

I closed my eyes, collecting myself, and inhaled deeply. „How did you know my mother, Miss Rosie? All of that,” I gestured around the lavish interior, “is something vastly different from what I would expect from my family’s friend. Not that it’s bad! It’s just so…” 

„Opulent? Don’t worry, I know what you mean. Well, you could say, milk was the very basis for my relationship with your mother!” 

„Milk?” I tilted my head in confusion. 

„Yes, milk! Back in the day, Mary used to sell the freshest milk out of all the hawkers on the Market, and I do treat anything that goes with my tea with utmost importance! Oh, how long ago it was. Probably before you were born? The poor thing, she didn’t have enough to even buy herself proper shoes back then, but somehow still had that air of poise around her. It was just so fascinating! We started talking, and after some time, we became close friends.” 

„If you have known each other for so many years, why don’t I remember you?” 

„I think Mary was ashamed of our difference in status, and barely ever invited me to your home. So, I only came after she was banned from selling things on the market, on the grounds of not having a permit; which was, by the way, completely absurd!” Rosie burst out, indignant. “She was so much different by then, though.” 

„In what way?” 

„As years passed, Mary seemed to become more… detached from reality. Melancholic. The talkative girl I knew was gone, and what was left was just… a shell of her former self. I couldn’t recognize her anymore, it was as if she had been dying alive… I am sorry to talk about your mother this way, Alastor. It’s very insensitive of me.” 

As much as it was painful to hear, especially put like _that_ , Rosie was right. I barely remembered my mother ever being enthusiastic or elated. She was always calm, and nothing seemed to break her from the chains of desolation. Every day, she routinely performed her daily tasks, slogging from one place she had to be at to the other. With me, mother did her best to pretend she was okay, but could only lie so much. Even as a child, I still saw her dejection. And felt so guilty for not being able to help her, no matter what I tried. 

„No, it’s alright, Miss Rosie. I know.” 

„That is also one of the reasons I didn’t go through with your adoption all those years ago… however bad it sounds. Because I suppose that is how you found me?” I nodded in confirmation. “You were behaving so much like her in those years. She, you… you just weren’t _there_. Every single time I tried to approach you, you would quiver in fear or run away. I don’t know if you even remember it.” 

„I- I don’t. I’m sorry, Miss Rosie.” 

„I am the one who should be sorry. I really wanted to help, but I just didn’t have enough patience to take care of a child, especially one so traumatized as you were. I couldn’t have taken care of you well, and the headmistress agreed. But I still felt… obliged to help. I know she wouldn’t want you to lose all your chances in life because of having no support, so I did what little I could in that regard. I hope you forgive me.” 

„I do, but support? What do you mean— wait, Miss Rosie, it was _you?_ My school fund?” I exclaimed, hit by the sudden realization. 

For years, I wondered what was the reason a significant portion of the money required for me to pursue higher education I had so soon after leaving the orphanage; such chances weren’t common, not in the _least_ , and I didn’t believe _Signora_ Nicoletta when she said the charity running the establishment ’saw my potential’ and gathered assets for the cause. How could I? As it turns out, I was right to doubt her words; the reality as shocking, or even more, than what I was led to believe. I found it peculiarly strange — who on Earth spends this much on a child of a mere friend? — but decided to not pursue it further. 

„Yes. I hope you put it to good use!” 

„Yes, I study engineering at Tulane, but… Miss Rosie, I am nothing more than a stranger to you, it’s too much. I could never repay you.” 

„You don’t have to. I did not want the son of my… friend to share the same life she did, or worse. She wouldn’t want that for you either.” A melancholic sigh followed. „So, don’t mention it, dearie.” 

„Thank you, Miss Rosie.” I scrabbled through my pocket, which gradually began to feel very heavy. Inside was the gold ring with an apple-shaped ruby. I intended to ask Anthony to inquire his… vast circle of questionable acquaintances about it, the time for dabbling in less legal sources of information nigh. But, now I got to know a person who certainly knew a thing or two about jewelry, _and_ was familiar with my mother. Maybe by some chance, she could tell me something about the ring, too? It was a long shot, but one indeed worth trying.

„Actually, Miss Rosie, could I have one more question?” 

„Oh?” The Emporium’s owner raised her brow curiously, still sipping her tea elegantly. 

„Could you tell me something about the provenience of this ring?” I passed it to her. Rosie’s eyes widened, as she turned it in her hands. 

„Oh, that’s really curious, curious indeed. I haven’t seen this one in years,” she whispered to herself, so quiet I barely heard her voice.

„I knew it, I apologize for troubling— I’m sorry, Miss Rosie, you saw this ring before? This particular ring? Do you know who it belongs to? Do you know—” 

„Please, one question at a time, before you get winded!” 

I inhaled, collecting myself. It seemed losing air was becoming another trademark of mine, but how could I help it, finding such a treasure trove unexpectedly? Everyone would get overexcited! „By any chance, do you know its owner?” I inquired eagerly. 

„I… well, I do, although I fear the last time I saw Vaggie was… a long time ago. A decade, perhaps. Maybe more.” 

„Vaggie? That’s a peculiar name.” 

"'Alastor’ isn’t exactly a common one either, dearie.” I nodded my head sideways, shrugging, and looking at the ceiling. She did have a point. „I believe Vaggie is of Salvadoran descent. Poor girl, she must have been despairing when she lost this ring. I have never seen her without it.”

„How do you know her?” 

„She was a seamstress who used to make costumes for the French Opera House. I have been working as a consultant and a designer with them for years, and that’s how I came to know her. What a talented girl! The world hasn’t seen such dexterous hands since, well, myself. Ha ha ha!” Miss Rosie chuckled, covering her mouth. 

„It sounds like you know her quite well, Miss Rosie,” I nodded, making mental notes of all the precious information she was revealing. “Could I perhaps ask for her full name?”

Hearing the question, she paused for a second, pondering. Her long fingers laced together on her lap, a thumb twisting a ring adorning her index finger. Feeling stiff, Miss Rosie adjusted, fidgeting in the chair. “No… I can’t recall. I’m sorry, dearie, we were by no means close, just occasional coworkers, nothing more. Besides, from what I heard, she was always secretive about her personal life, preferring to keep things between colleagues professional. I only learned she moved out of New Orleans a long time after she was gone.”

„That’s a shame…” Aaand here goes my lead, _who would have known._ „I take it you aren’t able to provide me with an address, then..?”

„Sorry, dearie,” she answered apologetically.

“Please, don’t be, Miss! You have been a tremendous help anyway,” I exclaimed genuinely, to which she sighed. However undeveloped, it was still a lead; and it was more than likely someone at the Opera would be able to tell me more. After all, Vaggie could be closer with the colleagues she worked with on an everyday basis; it was definitely worth checking out.

„Perhaps now I could try to tempt you to some bauble?” The shop owner interrupted my thoughts. “I see you’ve been eyeing this pin from my mythology collection for a while.” Rosie stood up, heading towards the shop window. From a dress, she removed the golden stag’s head, which had caught my attention previously. She handed it over to me. 

„Its design… it’s very curious.” 

„It alludes to the story of Actaeon and Artemis.” 

I fiddled with the gold pin in my hands. The myth was familiar to me, telling the story of a hunter, named Actaeon, who was a close friend and a hunting partner to goddess Artemis. However, as time passed, the puny human started to realize his feelings for her went beyond simple companionship. He wanted to be closer to her, to see more of her than their hunting endeavors enabled. One day, driven by infatuation and lust, he dared to gaze at her ravishing beauty as she bathed. Unfortunately, he was spotted; Artemis, feeling betrayed and enraged by his impudence, cursed him, forbidding him speech. If he dared to speak, he would be turned into a stag, a punishment for the unlucky profanation of her privacy. 

Actaeon didn’t get to live as a mute person for long. Upon hearing the call of his hunting party, without thinking, he cried out to them, immediately transforming. The dogs no longer recognized their master; he ran and ran, but the hounds were faster. Everything left of Actaeon, the mortal who dared to invade a goddess with his insolent gaze, were torn apart pieces of mauled flesh.

A human sacrifice. 

"These red flowers,” Rosie pointed her slender finger at the clusters of scarlet intricately entangled in the stag’s antlers, “are amaranths, but I find the common folks’ name, love-lies-bleeding, to suit them more. You see, Artemis isn’t only the goddess of the hunt; she is also the patroness of sudden death, illness, plague. An immortal flower, never losing its striking color, even long after withering, just as love can go beyond the grave. But immortal doesn’t mean fulfilled; it can still cause misery, hopelessness, be doomed from the very beginning.” 

„Love-lies-bleeding,” I whispered to myself. „I think I will take it, Miss Rosie. Thank you.” 

I once again looked at the pin, now stored safely in an elegant, velvet box. The ominous stories I heard not only didn’t put me off, on the contrary — they made me adamant to buy and gift the piece of jewelry. I didn’t believe in doomed fates. The more I was told to be hopeless, the more I wanted to defy destiny and show the only person in charge of my life, was me. For years, I had been passive, flowing where the waves led me. I decided to be swayed no more. I decided to dream. I decided to choose. I decided to hope. 

Hope that nothing is truly hopeless. There is always a way out, always a solution. It could take days to find, maybe weeks, but it is always _there_. 

I clenched my hand on the velvet box, thinking this pin would look so lovely on Charlotte’s bottle green dress, the one she wore that unforgettable day in the forest. My broken heart no longer had the strength to suffer in silence, waiting for a miracle; because one was not coming. 

Not without my contribution. 

I needed to talk to her. 

══════════════════ 

But, as always, easier said than done. The difficulties I listed before were still there. I couldn’t just go and intrude her house, and descending on her at work was off-limits, even though I _was_ due for a check-up at Charity, a returning burdensomeness resulting from my little rough-up three months ago. If I was a Jane Austen novel character, I would probably send her a heartfelt letter. But, I was no Mr. Darcy, and Charlotte was no Lizzie Bennet.

I sighed, miserably looking around for an answer to the predicament I was in. If only there was a way to contact someone directly and lickety-split, but without the need to stand face to face with them… 

…wait… 

But there was!

I turned around, and spotted a perfect solution to my problem: a telephone booth! Convinced Charlotte must have her own phone at home (after all, she was an Uptown girl), I flicked through the directory, and indeed, there she was. Picking up the handset, I requested the operator to dial her. After a few seconds, the connection was made. 

„Hel—” 

Before I could utter a single word, Charlotte hung up on me. What a great start, marvelous indeed… but I wasn’t going to give up so easily. I apologized to the operator, saying I must have severed the connection by mistake, and asked her to try the number again, praying for better results this time around. 

„—lo.” I was met with silence, but the call was still on. I took a deep breath. „May I… speak now?”

„You may,” a voice cold as ice responded. I shivered, and for a second deliberated whether _I_ should hang up now. Would I get another chance later? Likely not. I cursed at my damn sudden rush of confidence and hope which put me in this position, out of my own accord no less. I continued hesitantly. 

„I just wanted to ask if you are doing alright.” 

„I am.” 

A few seconds passed, only the purring of a car engine passing filling the quiet void. I stayed silent, hoping she would continue. She didn’t.

„I- I am glad to hear that, then. Charlotte, I’m sorry, but I think we should talk…”

„We really should _not_. Alastor, what happened, us… it was the most pleasurable mistake. This farce, we ought to stop it. Before it’s too late.”

„Too late for _what_? Charlotte, I don’t understand, what could possibly happen, that you—”

“Don’t push me,” she interrupted unceremoniously. “Please.”

Like a lake frozen in the middle of the winter, she was cold, and firm; but, just as iced water, the chill didn’t reach all the way down to the depth — it was tangible in her soft waver, and the inability to hold the conversation. And that meant, I had a chance to pass through, treading carefully, not to let the surface break underneath my feet.

But I still needed to know.

“Then tell me what I did wrong. What did I do to hurt you, to offend you, because believe me, _please_ believe me, this is the last thing—”

„Alastor,” her voice softened, the soothing, familiar tones which I so adored murmuring in my ear through the aloof handset. „You didn’t do anything wrong. You… you are the purest of heart, kindest man I have ever met. You are just so good, and I am _nothing_ like you. If we go on, ultimately, I am bound to hurt you. Deeply. So, please—”

„ **You are hurting me now!** ” I bawled, no longer able to conceal my heartbreak. I didn’t know what the future could bring, and I didn’t care. Nothing was set in stone. Her refusal to talk to me, to meet with me, so abrupt and unexplainable — I couldn’t imagine her ever causing me more misery. The best thing to happen to me was meeting her. How could I go back to life without her? „Please don’t shut me out. Whatever you are going through… let me be there. For you.”

„You don’t even know me.” 

„But I do!” I exclaimed with conviction. „I know a woman beautiful inside and out, one so intelligent, so confident and _kind_. A woman who is lost, but still takes time to help me find _myself_. I care about that woman deeply. _Please_ , Charlotte. Whatever the other side of her is, let me get to know it. All of it, all of her.” 

She scoffed with a short, ironic laughter, laced with clemency. “The other side of her is the idealized image you created, and as much as I suppose it is flattering… stay in your dream, Alastor, and never wake up, or the reality will disappoint you.”

“How, when my dream is turning into a nightmare,” I answered bitterly.

“It is only yet to come, if you do not let go.”

“You speak in riddles, Charlotte, and I cannot understand—”

“That is the very reason why I left,” she stated firmly, at which my eyelids clenched together, and teeth ground. “You do not understand, you cannot, and you never will.”

“ **Try me**!” I exclaimed. “Don’t underestimate me. I won’t let go of the present because of the future, one which could change. Why would you punish me, if I am without a fault?”

“I am not punishing you—”

“Then why did you show me happiness just to pry it away from me so soon?”

Silence fell upon us once again, and if not for the faint buzz of the white noise, I would think the connection must have been severed again. Even though I couldn’t see her face, in my mind, I had its image. Her brows drawn together over drooping eyes, and a wistful smile on her lips. Slouching, lost in thoughts beyond the tactile.

“What are you afraid of, Charlotte?”

“Fate,” a single word filled the air from the other end of the line.

“You are its own sole creator.”

A second passed, one in which I could nearly hear the notions running rampant in her head. “I cannot. I could not possibly…” She paused, hesitating. „Do not make it harder for me than it already is. Do not call me again. Do not test my resolve, because I—” 

„Why do you need to restrain yourself?” 

„Because I made a promise.” 

In the quietude, the colorful stalls on the Market desaturated, and my vision darkened. Every heavy breath I took, I was aware of. My heart raced, and when I looked down, the floor waved, as if slipping away. I closed my eyes, counting, calming myself. I had to ask. I was terrified of her answer, but there was one question I _needed_ to ask. A question I didn’t ever _think_ I would have to ask. 

„Do you… have someone, Charlotte?” 

„There is no other man in my life,” she replied with a sharp, quivering inhale. „Never has been,” she paused. „I know you mean well, but leave me be. Just… stay away. _Please_. I am trying to figure everything out—” 

„We can figure it out together!” I cried out hopelessly. 

„No, Alastor, with you around, I cannot think straight. I need time. Alone.”

As much as it pained me to go back to how things were between us before this conversation… I had to comply and give her the space she needed. It was the right thing to do, the _reasonable_ thing to do, because additionally, she was right. I didn’t really know her. I had no idea of her past experiences, and frankly, if she had any at all. I just assumed she did, seeing her self-assurance and nonchalance. I could have misjudged her. She could easily be as lost as I was. Her needing time, I had to honor; patience and hope, I had to find. 

„I- I understand.” 

A sigh of relief exhaled into the receiver, and as a soft gust of wind tickled my cheek, I could swear it was her breath. My fingers moved by themselves, touching the spot, disappointed to find it was just an illusion of a longing mind.

„Charlotte, once you do figure everything out… can we meet then?” 

„Yes,” her voice wavered. „Please, take care, Alastor.” 

„I… I will be waiting for you.” 

Sun shone on the pit my spirit fell in, and with exertion, I climbed out of it. The signal beeped torpidly, but my thoughts, for the first time in over a week, were calm; her reassurance and consideration enough to lull my jaded, strained psyche to rest. 

I was alone, but the steel armor of fate was crumbling, struck by the lance of faith.

I dared to dream. I dared to hope. 

And hope prevailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Hanged Man is equal to stagnation and the lack of action. It symbolizes meditation and spiritual detachment from the world, to concentrate on one’s inner life. Sometimes it is also associated with a person divulging over their problems. However, the expression of the character on the card allows an interpreter to see it as a metaphor of bliss and satisfaction in one’s stability in life._  
>    
>  It would appear things aren’t as hopeless as we might have thought, and our ~~I agree, quite vexing~~ lovebirds may still mend things between each other, despite the secrets weighing between them: the mysterious promise Charlotte has made, and the fact Alastor did actually pry into her past, uninvited.  
>  The wheel of fate is turning and gets into gear. Where will it take them?  
>    
>  I’d like to stop for a second and thank you all for the continuous support ♥️ It means a lot, and I absolutely love all of your comments, the big ones, the small ones, the theories and observations. You lot are the best readers one could ask for! ♥️  
>    
>  If you wanted to follow me on twitter, I’m [@frumpy_furby](https://twitter.com/frumpy_furby). I post updates there, and some more fun stuff!  
>    
>  And… see you on Friday, March 12th!


	9. The Fool

Friday, September 29, 1916 

„Fuck, Al, how come every single time we meet your mug looks about as thrilled as my pimp’s after I spent a week's worth of earnings on drugs? Smile a little, wontcha?” Tony hit me on the back with his full strength, and I choked, spitting the drink I was sipping all over the counter. „You know you’re never fully dressed without one, and  _ God _ I’d rather not see you naked!” 

Alas, I was in no joyous mood. What did I have to be happy about? Two more weeks without a single word from Charlotte had passed, and to make matters worse, I couldn’t pursue the clue of which Rosie enlightened me, either. However the providence of the damned gold ring was known, its relation to black magic was still anybody’s guess. The owner, even if I managed to find her somehow, surely wouldn’t just spill the beans about the forbidden rituals the piece of jewelry was mixed in. No — I had to know the meaning behind those strange names and symbols before confronting her.

And, as Mimzy predicted months ago, the well of legal sources was drying out for us very quickly. To find someone with illegal dealings, there was no choice but to reach into equally unlawful ones. The thought was revolting, and the whole affair could turn dangerous very quickly; but trying to avoid this solution, lying in front of our eyes the entire time, was equal to going in circles, and wasting time. The last resort had to be used; and although I hesitated and put it off as much as I could, I had to make peace with myself and come to terms with the fact I, once again, couldn’t deal with the matter on my own. I had to ask for help, and unfortunately, there was only one person who could provide it. 

To drag Anthony into these matters was something I wanted to avoid at all costs. His profession was dangerous enough without dabbing fingers in satanic mojo and sticking his neck out for me. I wasn’t fine with asking him for this hazardous favor, but pretending I wouldn’t need to do it sooner or later was self-delusion.

Once again, I was useless by myself. Forced by the circumstances to endanger ones I cared deeply about. 

So, yes, I certainly was in  _ very _ chirpy spirits. 

„I’d rather not have seen _you_ naked either, but those images are going to stay embedded in my mind till the day I die,” I retorted casually, making him chortle for some completely unknown reason. „Tony, I have a favor to ask.” 

„Only if you finally start calling me ‚Angel’, asshole,” he pouted, crossing his arms. I rolled my eyes at his stubbornness. 

„No way in hell I will call you by your hooker name.  _ Especially _ not the dumbest one you’ve come up with so far, and we both know your creativity is vast and pretty much limitless.” 

„Is your way of asking for a favor offending me? No 'Angel’, no Good Samaritan for you, darling,” Tony shrugged and proceeded to stand up, walking away. 

I grabbed him by the coat, pleadingly pulling him back into place. In moments like this, I was questioning all of my life choices, starting with the kind-of adopting such an irking idiot as a brother. He was dear to me,  _ very _ dear, but my  _ God _ he knew how to turn my gears, and in situations like these, I hated him with passion. He just lacked the essential skill of being able to read the air, and be serious when need be. 

Guessing I had no choice but to comply, I decided to humor him. It was nothing in comparison to what I was about to ask of him, after all.

„For Christ’s sake, Ant— sorry,  _ Angel _ . Alright. I’ll have it your way.” Tony blew me a flirtatious kiss in return, and an uncomfortable shiver ran down my spine. Oh no. No, no,  **no** .  _ Brr _ . 

„What is that you need, my dear brother?” He put his long legs on the counter, much to the poor bartender’s dismay; however, as a regular, his attitude was very well known to the Palace’s employees. Admonishing him was pointless, since he would pay it no mind, anyway. Throwing him out of the club every single night would be too much of a hassle for one harmless, albeit annoying, hooker, either - so, in the end, his antics were being tolerated. 

„Could you ask around about the possible uses of this ring?” 

„Don’t have to,” he put a cigarette in his mouth, leaning backwards. „I know them already.” 

„You do?!” I slammed my hands on the bar excitedly. What a coincidence! I should have asked him sooner. I shouldn’t have doubted him, or worried for nothing. Of  _ course, _ Tony would know, he isn’t new to the business after all, and— 

„Yes. You goddamn cretin, don’t tell me you are going to propose to Doctor Sexy  _ already _ ! It’s too soon! Too fast! I’m not ready for your married life!” He cried out, spreading his arms in the air theatrically, gaining us the attention of the crowd. 

„What the hell are you talking about, Doctor Se— oh my God please don’t call her that.” 

I dragged my hand down my face in disbelief. So many years, and I  _ still _ got caught in one of his capers. I do admit, on many instances, I found them to be quite amusing, and entertaining. Endearing, at times — I knew more often than not they were his weird way to get me to relax and unwind. We would get back-and-forth, arguing and pushing each other’s buttons, only to laugh in unison in the end.

However, it wasn’t one of those days and one of those topics, so I couldn’t see his method working that time around. The topic of Charlotte was still very much fresh, and I was sensitive about it. I couldn’t blame Tony for his bluntness, though; he had no way of knowing. 

„We… aren’t doing so well. I would rather not talk about it.” 

„Oh. Sorry about that, then,” Tony rectified himself. “What happened? Don’t tell me you shot her again or something?” 

„No. I kissed her, actually. But I would appreciate it if you—” 

Boisterous laughter broke, one resounding all over the Palace’s walls. Honestly, I don’t know what I expected of my brother. Respect for my personal boundaries and mental anguish? Respect  _ in general _ ? Psh. As if. 

But at least there was an attempt. That, I appreciated. 

„I’m sorry Al,” he continued wheezing, “but fuck me, you bring shame upon our name—” 

„We don’t have the same name. Also, gross.” 

„Shut up. You bring shame upon our name and embarrass our ancestors.  _ My  _ brother? A kisser so bad a  _ cougar _ runs away?  _ Mamma mia, _ that’s splendid. Absolutely magnificent.” 

„What on  _ Earth _ is a cougar?” I knitted my brows in bewilderment, causing Tony to burst out even more. 

„You have a lot to learn, my dear apprentice,” he wiped a tear from his eye, a result of laughing too sincerely. “But damn, I am truly sorry, Al. You had some never seen before hots for this lady. Don’t worry, though. There’s plenty more fish in the sea!” 

„But only one I dream of catching,” I breathed a loud sigh. 

„You are dreaming of— oh no you’re sappy again. Don’t you think it’s too early to be drunk?” 

„I think it’s too early to be sober.” 

„Oh no, Mister, you are  _ not _ drinking anymore today,” Tony pronounced, gobbling down the remainder of my drink. To the barman, he gestured to not, under any circumstances whatsoever, pass me another round. A pity, even if I didn’t intend to drink  _ that _ much. After all, I had matters to attend. “You are a weakling even by your standards,” he picked up. “I don’t recognize you… now I think of it, what the hell is that get up?” 

„Do I look bad?” 

„No, on the contrary, you look sexy as shit, but I don’t think I ever saw you without a bowtie? Except for your entrance exams, maybe. Are you starting yet another course? Because yes, your under-eye bags  _ aren’t  _ pronounced enough already.” 

„No, I am not—” 

„Oh, so you are over Doctor Sexy already and out on the dating field? You get them, tiger! Who’s the lucky gal?” He exclaimed excitedly. 

„That, I suppose, happens to be me.” 

„Mimzy!” 

My dear flapper friend approached our table gracefully. She was wearing her usual attire, but with a smart twist — hems of her blouse and skirt adorned with a slightly iridescent lace, glistening delicately in the dim club light. Other than that, she wasn’t wearing any sorts of adornments, except for her trademark ribbon headband. Nimbly, she sat next to me. 

„Hello. You could have told me you were going to dress up. I would have put in more effort too!” 

„You’re not fooling anyone, my dear,” I shook my head, sneering. “I see you looking very sophisticated yourself.” 

She shrugged her shoulders with a smile, turning to the barman to order a soft drink. Unlike me and my brother, she was a responsible person, refraining from guzzling alcohol before evening hours. Oftentimes, she skipped drinking altogether; being that one friend who collects the hopeless drunkards and drags them home. If I found myself in a safe spot (likely Tony’s apartment or her flat, located just outside the Opera house) after a blackout, with a jar of pickles and a glass of carbonated water on the nightstand — it was her doing. I appreciated it greatly; my brother, however, always found her a bore and a drag — despite benefiting from her constant help as well. 

„Al, please don’t tell me you and Mimzy are dating,” Tony leaned in, whispering in a lowered voice. „That girl is such a damn prude—”

„ **No, I am** **_not_ ** **dating Mimzy!** ” I yelped, blaring. 

Anthony slapped a hand on his face. “You just  _ had _ to yell it at the top of your lungs, hadn’t you, Master of Discretion?” 

„Why do I feel like I am babysitting two children,” Mimzy sighed. “No, Angel, don’t worry your pretty little head, we aren’t dating. We are just going to the opera, and have to look the part.” 

„That sounds awfully lot like dating to me.” 

„We are going there on a  **job** , Ant— Angel!” I cried out. “Why do you have to make everything about—”

„Because, honey, that’s  _ my _ job,” he turned around. “Speak of the devil, a cute guy is eyeing me from behind the corner, so, duty calls! If you two totally-not-lovebirds will excuse me, I need to go make some pennies.” 

I looked back, and indeed, a young, tan man was curiously taking glances at Tony with a pair of sharp, mantis eyes. He looked very elegant, and out of place within the homely Palace walls. The way he dressed was peculiar, too: he sported a bottle green suit with a foulard and a top hat, a style which hadn’t been popular for a few years at least. The only other person whom I knew and clothed similarly, was my boss, Sir Pentious. Maybe the bizarre stranger was European, too? Whoever he was, he seemed to be loaded, and that always heralded a lucky day for Tony. As soon as he noticed me and Mimzy scanning him, the man turned away, embarrassed. 

„I like your brother, but  _ God, _ doesn’t he get on my nerves,” Mimzy groaned once Angel got lost in the crowd. 

„Tell me about it,” I rolled my eyes. „I apologize on his behalf.” 

„You don’t have to. I knew what I was getting myself into when you introduced us all those years ago. Besides, he has a point. I haven’t seen you in a tie since—” 

„My entrance exams, I know, I know. He reminded me of it too. Do I look  _ this _ weird without a bowtie?” 

„I am not exactly the most objective person to be asked about the attractiveness of your appearance, you know,” she replied simply. I blinked a few times, processing the information. When I realized what Mimzy meant, I choked, my ears turning scarlet. 

Seemingly not phased in the least and paying my reaction no mind, she stood up, dusting her skirt and adjusting her headband. „Come on, Al. We have some seamstresses to question.” 

══════════════════

Mimzy was a resourceful woman — of that, I had no doubt. However, every so often, her connections and ability to horn into the most off-limits places bewildered me beyond measure. I have been a frequent visitor to the French Opera House myself, but always as a spectator, marveling at the skill of the actors and singers. A huge chunk of my radio program was dedicated to culture, after all; and fervently I reviewed most premieres happening in various theaters in New Orleans, but the breathtaking edifice rising like a white colossus over Bourbon and Toulouse street had a special place in my heart. I do admit, bargain seats on the upper levels might have played a role in creating my sentiment as well. 

Still, never before I had a chance to peek behind the curtain, as the backstage was, obviously, not accessible to the general public. And, although the business we had with Mimzy to attend there was rather grim, I couldn’t hide my excitement for finally being able to see how does the myriad of artists and artisans employed at this cultural establishment work to create the emotion-laden and exhilarating plays we, as an audience, got to applaud later. 

The first thing which struck me was just how enormously large the backstage was. As we pottered down the stairs hidden behind a door on the side of the stage, a labyrinth of narrow corridors opened itself to our meanders, every single wall concealed nearly completely by props and musical instruments neatly stored in their cases. In our ears, muffled sounds of overture rehearsal resounded, low, bass tones intermingling with piercing high notes of fiddles. The show was starting soon; but, surprisingly enough, no one seemed to be in any sort of hurry. 

Each door was holding a world of its own, artists of all sorts and professions concentrating on the tasks on hand. One peek inside, and I suddenly found myself in the realm of ballet, dancers practicing, as usual, paying their rapidly approaching showtime no mind. Intensive. Precise. Spectacular. 

I couldn’t gaze at them for long, though, as Mimzy pulled my sleeve, encouraging me to keep moving in the direction we were headed. Begrudgingly, I took my eyes off of the performers; and soon enough, another door opened, astonishing me with its lavish, vivid interior. 

Scattered everywhere were hangers with attires of all styles, colors, and proveniences imaginable. Between them, young girls hurtled, searching for  _ the _ perfect outfits to dress actors and singers in for the upcoming performance. Next to them, seated in front of impressive mirrors, were other thespians, relaxing while the ones responsible for visage did their makeup with the utmost care, while synonymously fixing the wigs and hairstyles. Everything was an enchanting, organized chaos, and I gasped in awe, breathing in the air of avant-garde. 

Hidden in a cozy room right next to the great parlor, surrounded by mannequins festooned with yards of brilliant fabrics, was the person we were looking for. The petite, ginger seamstress was hunching over a sewing machine, sticking out her tongue as she meticulously hemmed a frilly Marie Antoinette-style dress. So in her task the woman was, she didn’t even notice us entering. Carefully, not to startle the artisan, Mimzy approached her. 

„Excuse me,” she said in a quiet voice, “my name is Mimzy Hannigan, and—” 

„ **AAAAH!** ” Seamstress screamed at the top of her lungs, jumping away from the sewing machine. She grabbed a pair of scissors, and through narrowed eyes, scanned us both. Then, relieved, breathed a heavy, relaxed sigh. “Ah, it’s just a pair of strangers. I thought it’s the director. You both startled me!” 

We gaped at her, completely baffled. That was a… kind of reaction, alright. Feeling probably equally perturbed as the ginger woman was, I continued staring at her, thanking gods old and new I didn’t have to live in such a crippling fear of  _ my _ boss, whom I do admit I wanted to jump at with the nearest sharp object only  _ occasionally _ , and metaphorically at the most. Mimzy regained her composure faster than me, and — trying her best to sound unperturbed — picked up the conversation. 

„No, we aren’t, don’t worry, Miss..?” 

„Niffty! I’m Niffty. It’s nice to meet you! It’s been a while since I’ve made new friends!” She grinned widely, passing her eyes over both of us yet again in a creepy manner. 

„I- I guess you could put it this way,” Mimzy stammered, thrown off by the madcap enthusiasm of the seamstress. “Miss Niffty, could I ask you a few questions about a former acquaintance of yours, if you wouldn’t mind? I’ve heard you have been working in the costume department for a very long time, and might have known her.” 

„Of course! Anything for my friends!” She seated herself back, and with a gesture, invited us to do the same, the offer which we took gladly. 

„What can you tell us about a woman named Vaggie?” 

„Oh, she was my bestest of friends when we had just started our apprenticeship all those years ago!” 

„How long ago?” Mimzy further inquired. 

„Hmm…,” Miss Niffty tapped a finger on her lips, calculating. „I think it has been seventeen years or so? We were fifteen at the time.” 

I gaped at the seamstress with an open mouth. However rude, I was completely shocked. She didn’t look much older than twenty at most, and with the right visage, she could probably even pass as a teenager. Meanwhile, she purported to be thirty-two? I eyed Mimzy and saw equal perplexion painted on her face, probably wondering what on Earth is that woman’s secret to the youthful glow. The energetic approach and petite stature, perhaps? Or maybe the unparalleled aura of mania surrounding her? 

„If she was your friend, Miss Niffty, do you think you knew her well?” Mimzy continued, collected. 

„We were thick as thieves, although it did take a while to break the ice. Vaggie wasn’t shy by any means, she was quite ferocious actually, but preferred to keep to herself. She wasn’t the type to confide in anyone, you know?” She paused, knitting her brows. „But, I don’t understand why you are asking me all those questions? Did Vaggie do something wrong again?” 

„What do you mean, ‘again’?” We exclaimed in unison. 

As if by magic, Miss Niffty’s approach shifted one hundred eighty degrees. She tensed and backtracked, her never-ending flow of babbling replaced by heavy, uncomfortable silence. Her lips pursed, pressing into one, thin line — like that of a naughty child, refusing to tell their parents what exactly they did this time around. Although not exactly a welcome reaction from the perspective of interrogators, it was a sign we were on the right track. 

„Miss Niffty, did Miss Vaggie come into conflict with law in the past?” 

The seamstress squashed her lips together even tighter, glowering at us. She wasn’t moving a muscle. 

„Was she perhaps… violent?” 

Niffty’s eyes opened wider, but her body remained obdurately still. 

„Or did she… dabble in dark magic?” 

The ginger woman blinked a few times with raised eyebrows and jerked her head backward. “What? No, of course not! That’s just silly,” she blurted out. “A devoted Catholic would never even  _ attempt  _ something like that, no way! And here I was, thinking you were accusing her of something serious.”

„We aren’t accusing anyone of anything  _ per se _ , Miss Niffty, but I’m afraid your friend is connected to a murder case, and we are building a circle of suspects. Finding witnesses. Ruling out the possibilities.”

„Murder case?” Niffty’s chair screeched on the floor, suddenly pushed backward. Her hands, quivering slightly, grabbed the armrests. „Vaggie? No… it’s impossible, she wouldn’t go this far, not even if it was for the cause!” 

„The cause?” 

The seamstress bit her lip. „I shouldn’t tell you this, but… she was a noted suffragette, the militant kind, very active in all sorts of campaigns and demonstrations. And you know, sometimes things take a… pretty violent turn. But Vaggie wouldn’t hurt a fly!” We looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Alright, she  _ would _ hurt it, but probably stop at tearing its wings away, rather than kill it!” I opened my eyes wider. “What I mean is, she did blow up a fair amount of mailboxes back in the day and may or may not have stabbed some policemen with a hairpin on more than one occasion, but she wouldn’t kill a breathing, living human being!” 

Although the image Miss Niffty painted of her friend made her look quite deranged and psychotic, to say the least, I did know well what she meant. In the eyes of many, being a suffragette was enough to deem someone lunatic, a person belonging only to an asylum of the highest security, unworthy to even be called a woman anymore. Because how could a lady ever commit such atrocious acts? How could one heckle politicians, set fire to churches and other property, smash windows, take part in brutal street brawls, and yet still claim to be the gentle sex? There was nothing gentle in the way they fought, there was no ethereal beauty to be found at the demonstrations. Those women didn’t fill the mold made for them, and that’s what made them deplorable. Scary. Because, as always, the easiest approach is to simply pigeonhole the different as „bad influence”, threatening the ways of the masses.

But was it a „bad influence” to wish for being treated equally? Contrary to the common, baseless belief, women didn’t start with answering the political oppression they have been facing for centuries with violence. No — they tried to talk, to show their postulates to the mighty, who just ignored them time and time again. As a result, suffragettes found themselves at the crossroads: they could either give up and lose the fight before it started, or push their demands in the only language old men in their fancy suits were cognizant of. 

Because they never had to submit to the decisions of others. They never had to fear going for an evening stroll or being forced to depend on someone simply because they weren’t born a white man. They only understand their little political gamblings, and wars; and so, the war was declared, and battle after battle, the so-called leaders will have no choice but to yield. 

I respected all these brave women and supported them wholeheartedly. And while the characteristics of Miss Vaggie did make me feel wary, rationality compelling me to mentaly draft a note of her being quite suspicious to say the least, I still might have respected her deep within my heart. She seemed to be an individual with a strong moral compass and a sense of justice. While she was definitely prone to violence, would she commit an act as atrocious as the one we were investigating? Would she  _ aid _ in it? That certainly was a conondrum. Just what exactly did she get herself into? 

„Well, assaulting a police officer certainly is a form of conflict with the law,” Mimzy stated matter-of-factly, causing me to roll my eyes. 

„Unfortunately. Poor Vaggie spent so many nights imprisoned at the station!” 

„Her family must have been very worried,” my companion asserted. 

„They probably would be, but she didn’t have a family, at least none that I know of. Except for this one girl, who I would probably take for her sister if not how different they were.” 

„How come?” Mimzy inquired, leaning forwards with her shoulders back. Her sparkling eyes were set on the seamstress, and a small smile was forming on her lips. She looked as if she just hit a jackpot; one that I didn't even see yet. 

„Well, for starters, she didn’t look like a Latina, with her tall and petite frame, pale complexion, and blonde hair. Her behavior was the exact opposite of Vaggie’s, too! She was very outgoing and lively, always coming to pick up her friend from work and hurling around restlessly until she was done. I didn’t get many chances to talk to her, but she was a barrel of fun and I wish I could have befriended her!”

„Do you recall her name, Miss Niffty?” I asked with a smile, ignoring the tightness in my eyes and calming my leg, which all of a sudden started bouncing up and down in one place.

„Not really, it sounded Spanish, though. Cecilia? Carolina?” She turned away slightly, with closed eyes and furrowed brows. „Carlota! She usually called her Lotta, though.”

‘Lotta, the love of sorrowful Werther’s life,’ I caught myself thinking, completely detached from the world around me for a second, which felt like much longer. The surmise Mimzy must have made a few minutes prior hit me; although a long shot without any evidence backing it, a coincidence of a mysterious blonde being connected to both cases was indeed a perplexing one.

However, it wasn’t enough to draw a definite conclusion. After all, golden hair is by no means a distinguishing feature, especially in the age of hair dyes. More so, the behavior of Carlota, as described by Miss Niffty, didn’t line up with that of Tom Trench’s Clementine at all. The first was a cheerful lassie, the second — a distinguished lady. 

The hair color itself couldn’t be even seen as a clue. Such an assumption was taking it too far. Hell, Mimzy  _ herself _ had light-toned locks. Niffty, under the right lighting, could pass as strawberry-haired. 

Charlotte was a mysterious blonde, too. 

My heart skipped a stinging beat, as I recalled her golden tresses shining in the scorching sun like the finest strings of delicate chain stitches, ones which even the most skillful of jewelers could not replicate. Her pure laugher tinkled in my ears, and the memory of a cooling breeze tickled my skin. What was the most carefree and endearing moment of my life, was coming back repeatedly to haunt me every hour of the day. I couldn’t go on like this, and I couldn’t keep listening to stories about captivating light-haired beauties. Not when I missed the most striking one of them all with all my soul. 

„Thank you, Miss Niffty, that was very enlightening and helpful. May I ask, do you perhaps know—” 

“—what happened to Miss Vaggie later on?” I interrupted Mimzy, cutting short her derailing interrogation. She shot me a dismayed glance, but rather than insist further, leaned on the chair with crossed arms, letting me continue the interview. “It sounds like you aren’t in contact anymore.” 

„She resigned years ago, and we haven’t talked since,” Miss Niffty closed in on herself, stooping. “It was after her trip to San Francisco with the troupe. Only the best ones were to attend, to be at hand in case any costumes needed fixing or altering on the spot. I was so jealous of her when she went! But, there she fell ill, and could no longer work. I felt… really dejected after. I just hope she is doing better now.” 

„From what we have learned so far, she moved out of New Orleans,” I added, hoping the information would somehow raise the seamstress’ spirits a bit. Seeing the funky lady suddenly so disconsolate made my chest feel heavy; I didn’t want to end our conversation with her feeling down in the dumps. Even if she was a stranger to me, and the talk was more akin to interrogation if anything else, it just didn’t seem right. 

„That’s a relief, then. Maybe she has fulfilled her dream and finally got out of her city to quietly live in the countryside, just her, her books, and sewing machine. How nice it would be, wouldn’t it?” Niffty smiled widely, and then pouted, noticing the stashes of fabrics laying on the table. “I’m very sorry, and I wish I could talk with you more, but I have a lot of work to do! I’ll gladly meet with you both over a cup of tea sometime later, though! Or vodka! Or perhaps opium! Your choice!” She yelled, waving her hand. Startled, I looked around me, checking if anybody heard her. Mimzy giggled, seeing me so perturbed by the seamstress’ nutty as a fruitcake comment. 

Although the woman was stark raving mad, she did furnish us with a lot of useful information. The insight we got into the recondite Miss Vaggie was certainly enlightening, and — however much I refused to acknowledge it — the mention of her blonde friend was a brand new thread to be disentangled and followed. For that, we would have to meet with the woman in question herself, which seemed to be quite a challenge without being provided with any contact details or an address whatsoever. An obstacle to be overcome, I had to ponder upon it later. 

Coming out of the door behind the curtain, we were met with a plethora of people, bustling around the auditorium. I took a watch out of my pocket to check the time, which bemused me greatly; the show was starting in mere ten minutes, and the Opera House was filling with the widest array of spectators, like a hive buzzing with bees. Couples in neat, cotton apparel hurried to the upper levels, while dames and gentlemen in silks continued to courteously discuss such fascinating topics as the weather or the vast differences in wine tastes. I rolled my eyes, practically stopping myself from scoffing. Although, as every middle-classed person, I was jealous of their status, I wouldn’t ever be able to live in such a shallow pretense. Keeping up the standard, posing as someone squeaky gallant — it just seemed so exhausting. One wrong move, one juicy gossip, and you were socially dead. Nothing escaped these vultures. 

Languidly, my gaze followed people trundling through the hall, as we ambled towards the exit. For some reason, drowsiness weighed on me; and I wished for nothing more than tuning in to bed early, submitting to the comforts only the nightly visions could provide to my weary soul. 

But then, a dream sauntered into the auditorium, with steps lithely flowing over the wooden parquet. Shrouded in tulle and velvet black as the winter solstice night, the captivating apparition graced the mediocre surrounding her with idle glances. Silver lace coruscated with even the slightest of her moves, glittering like freshly fallen snow. 

And oh how I have fallen, seeing her right there, on the other side of the hall — so close, yet so far; almost at arm’s length, yet unreachable. Frozen, I gaped from a distance, like peasants astonished by exquisite rosettas of cathedrals reaching up to the angels above. Beguiled, I couldn’t look away. 

Her eyes found mine and lighted up with soft glimmers of kindness. 

„Your Lotte awaits, my dear Werther,” Mimzy voiced with a frail smile. “Meet me in the Palace in a few days, alright? I have to check a few things.” 

„Mimzy—” 

„Don’t do anything foolish.” 

I looked at Charlotte, smiling at me from afar, so beautiful and so gentle. I walked towards her, and each hesitant, but eager step I took brought me closer to the realization the unspoken promise to Mimzy would not endure for long. 

Because my yearning heart knew: I was going to do something very foolish, and very soon. 

══════════════════

„Charlotte.” 

„Hello, Alastor.” 

Mischievous sparks in her eyes and a teasing smile greeted me, like always, much to my surprise. Although I longed for her and wished for nothing more than for the things between us to miraculously go back to the way they were before… the situation, her casual behavior flummoxed me. Rationally, I didn’t expect the first meeting after our difficult conversation to go smoothly; I reckoned to see her… disquieted, perhaps? Not that I  _ wanted _ to, of course, God, no — but it just would seem more natural. Her calm and complacent demeanor was puzzling, and I feared distress was hidden underneath. And so, I proceeded with caution. 

„I’m so glad to see you, but, what are you doing here?” 

„Why, what  _ anyone _ would do at an opera house, darling! I am here to watch a spectacle. I have been waiting for this premiere for a while now,” she chortled, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. Her eyes drilled into me, and the subtle flush staining my cheeks upon hearing that particular term of endearment might have turned a shade deeper. “I take it you are here for another purpose then, hm?” 

„Yes— no!” I rectified myself. “I came here for the premiere, too.”

My gut tied up on the lie so blatant, although white nonetheless. I didn’t want to deceive her the first thing after being separated for so long, but I came to the conclusion in the circumstances, it was better than the truth. I couldn’t just drop my murder investigation on her, and explaining I just went here with my female friend, of all things, in business was even worse. 

I prayed to Heavens I came out convincing. Even the slightest bit.

„Of course you are, dressed so dashingly. That was silly of me,” Charlotte smirked and fleetingly, barely noticeably, brushed my hair. “I see you took my opinion to heart.” 

The rate at which the vital organ started to beat in my chest, made me fearful it might finally burst out of it. Oh, the things this woman was doing to me! Every single time we met, the risk of cardiac arrest was breathing down my neck. Months may have passed, but I was still weak as to how her aura could shift so fluently between intimidatingly confident and endearingly gentle. Her duality was the sweetest poison; a drug I could never get enough of. An overdose, even if it meant my heart to cease beating, I wouldn’t mind. She was worth it. She was worth  _ everything _ . 

„I’m- I’m glad you like it,” I scraped a hand through my hair. Charlotte moseyed up the auditorium, perusing for her seat. I followed her; but, when with a hand gesture she invited me to sit by her side, I stopped in my tracks. Not only I haven’t paid for the ticket, but also never before have I seen a show from such an exclusive box. For people like me, they were off-limits, and not only because of monetary purposes. 

„I assure you, Alastor, you are more than welcome to sit by my side, if you want, of course. It is not taken.” 

„Thank you for the offer, Charlotte, but… won’t people talk?” I asked hesitantly. 

„Oh, they will, but they do anyway, so let’s give them a reason, shall we? Please, be my guest,” she stepped aside, allowing me to trudge warily into the loge. „Although I do wonder, why did you choose such a play? You do not seem like a man who would enjoy that type of stories.”

„What do you mean?”

„A blood-thirsty tale of revenge and a never-ending spiral of pain is not one I would ever associate with such a gentle person,” she fixed her half-lidded eyes on me, while the gears in my head turned stiffly. I had to remember the name of the play, or my carefully weaved pretense would fall apart like a house of cards. I knew all the premieres of the season; I just couldn’t recall this particular title. It was very simple. Something to do with, well, revenge. And how tragic— 

„Me neither, Charlotte. And yet, here you are, at the opening night of  _ ‚The Revenger’s Tragedy’ _ .” 

„Oh, I am as gentle as Vindice, my dear,” she stated matter-of-factly. But, before I could protest, the curtain was raised, and the show had started.

══════════════════

„But a thin veil separates love from obsession, Charlotte. How could one claim to love, if their actions go against everything they used to hold dear?”

The moon followed us, as I walked Charlotte home. The witching hour had long passed, and although the streets of New Orleans seemed tranquil, the danger was lurking just behind each corner. I knew that better than anyone, and so, couldn’t possibly leave a frail lady to wander alone so late into the night. She agreed to my gentlemanly offer — even being so kind as to  _ not _ remind me of how, realistically speaking, useful I would be if anything  _ were _ to happen. We both knew how well my previous confrontation with brutal reality went, and who was saving whom back then. 

But, alas, we had a lot to talk about, wandering together down the boulevards and narrow paths.  _ “Revenger’s Tragedy” _ is not the kind of play you forget the minute you leave the theater. No — its story lingers at the back of your head, a cautionary tale and a warning. Bearing striking resemblances to  _ „Hamlet” _ (as could be expected of a 17th-century Jacobean script), the bloodbath and distraught quite apparent in Shakespear’s work were a breeze in the park compared to those of Middleton’s. Not a single one of the tragedy’s characters were left unscathed by the end of it; probably the worst fate being the one of Vindice, the protagonist, whose whole being was fueled by revenge. Because you see, his wife, Gloriana, was led to commit the gravest of sins on herself by a cruel Duke, who attempted to forcefully strip her out of her chastity. Grief-stricken Vindice swore revenge on him and his whole bloodline — no matter the price. In the end, he succeeds in murdering the Duke, but with losing his own self and eventually, a painful demise, as consequences of his decisions. 

„All the pain, the hurt, was to  _ protect _ everything he held dear. Morality isn’t objective, Alastor. It’s relative. Vindice’s love for Gloriana went beyond the grave, he was willing to sacrifice everything he was to avenge her untimely demise. To honor her. This is the highest form of pure love and affection.” 

„He dug out her rotting corpse, disrupting her eternal rest,” I enumerated, ostentatiously counting the protagonist’s evil deeds on my fingers. “And if that wasn’t abominable enough, he paraded around with what was left of her moral shell. Played dress-up with it, using the body he worshipped for his own agenda. ‘Love’ wasn’t the reason, it was a mere excuse for his deranged mind, to keep the remainder of his sanity intact.” 

„It was the only thing he could do to empower her. To let Gloriana triumph over the one who caused her misery and over death itself.” 

„He used her skull to kiss the abuser and close him in a deadly embrace, all without her consent. If only she was alive, Vindice’s actions would leave her even more traumatized, and hurt. She wouldn’t want any of the things he did in her name.” 

„You don’t know that,” Charlotte’s words were firm and cold. 

„No, I don’t, but  _ he _ must have known.  _ He _ knew her, and it can be assumed did love her, not the  _ idea  _ of her at one point. A woman pure and innocent, a living angel, was the one he adored. If her heart was consumed by rage and revenge, her soul would be tainted irrevocably. She would be damned. By losing himself, and convincing himself he was doing what had to be done, he desecrated her body and befouled her memory.” 

„Vindice was a weak man, with that I agree. The only one capable of keeping the echo of her alive, he gave in to death as soon as his deed was done. No one left to nourish the remembrance of her.” 

„Perhaps he had hoped to reunite with her in the afterlife,” I pointed out. “A reward for what he did in her name.” 

„A futile and egoistic hope, more like. He should have done the impossible and prevail, in spite of the emptiness and pain consuming his soul, keeping at least her memory alive. Without him, she was gone from the world too. Forgotten.” 

„But to live life devoid of love, is it life at all, or just meager existence?” 

Charlotte froze in her tracks, motionless. We were just outside her house, the dim street lamp’s light illuminating her features, while the thick cover of darkness concealed others. The wind fluttered the breeze in her hair, as she stared at me as if she saw a ghost. Her brows winced, expression drooping for just a moment. The imposing aura, her faithful companion, diminished, and so did her whole stance; there, under the cover of the night, she was like the Red Riding Hood, lost in the wicked thicket of wilderness, left to be devoured by wolves. 

„Charlotte, what happened… you are right, I don’t know a thing about you. Every word and every step you take confuse me. One moment, you are teasing me, and the other you are cold as ice, unreachable. Keeping up with you is a challenge, but one I am willing to take if you’ll allow me. Because I genuinely  _ care _ and want to be there. For you. Let me into your thoughts. Let me into  _ you _ . You don’t have to be alone, you—”

„I am  _ never _ alone, Alastor. The life I lead is the one I  _ chose _ ,” she turned away.

„But did that choice make you happy?” 

Late-night zephyr warbled in my ears, the only sound breaking the silence which fell upon us. Charlotte once again was studying me, my every move and twitch. I closed my eyes, the only escape from the scrutiny. It probably lasted mere seconds, but felt like an eternity; in the end, it was her voice bringing me back from the stupor. 

„Not all decisions avail ourselves. Not all bring enjoyment or fulfillment,” she came closer to me, her back straight, the stance equanimous and self-assured. “What it is about you, I do not know, but you make me a fool, Alastor. All of my restraint and resolve crumble whenever you are near, and I do not have any strength left to resist. No longer I am going to make the decision for you. This is a point of no return. There is no going back once you cross it, and nothing will ever be the same again.” 

„I have crossed it the moment I met you. Since then, any future I have lies within your hands.” 

Silvery mauve moth wings flapped, landing on the dainty red flowers, gathered in scarlet inflorescences — just like my heart, skipping a beat when the lady of the house pulled me down, pressing a passionate kiss on my lips. I closed my eyes. 

The scent of her almond perfume embraced me, as did her cold fingers reaching beneath my collar, sending pleasant shivers down my spine. Guided by sheer instinct, my hands involuntarily traveled down her waist, clasping it.

Past the point of no return, there were no more backward glances — only the fire raging within our souls, consuming our very beings. There was only me, and her. 

And burning desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Fool is equal to spontaneity, enthusiasm and new opportunities arising. In the upright position, it is an indicator of a favorable direction of changes, while reversed foretells behavior both thoughtless and unpleasant in consequence. It also symbolizes the lack of attachment to material values, and - which shouldn’t be surprising - human stupidity. Unlike the Mage, the Fool is not aware of what he already has; therefore, this card is associated with new, but unwise operations. In a way, he acts as a warning to think before taking any actions. Moreover, a person described with the Fool’s card exhibits a tendency to downplay various matters, making them seem shallow. Intuition guides them; they may act like a small child, not realizing the implications of their actions._  
>   
>   
>  Alastor and Angel Dust are definitely my favorite comedic duo and I am _not_ sorry for that!  
>   
>  Alas, the plot thickens yet again. More things about Vaggie are revealed, and it would seem she is a real piece of work herself. And what’s that about all these mysterious blondes? ~~And one would think dark hair was more in style back in the good ol’ late Edwardian/Progressive Era days.~~  
>   
>  But, yes! Thank you all, again, for the support. It really blows my mind, especially now I have actually received **fanart**! I am raving and raving about it, but my God, I am absolutely stunned by the way [Jou](https://twitter.com/meowjou/status/1366799108380450816) (to whom you should go and give love now, ~~even if she cries about her Twitter solitude being compromised~~ ) captured the scene from the last chapter, in which Alastor discovers the photo of his parents. It’s breaking my heart. Oh, my poor boy. He deserves a hug.  
>   
>  ...and it would appear he might get more than just a hug next chapter _*gasps*_ , but you will see when the time comes, on Monday, March 22 ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)   
>   
>  If you wanted to follow me on twitter, I’m [@frumpy_furby](https://twitter.com/frumpy_furby). I post updates there, teasers, and some more fun stuff!


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